Part V: Provocation
by Azolean
Summary: A warning to the people; the good and the evil/This Is war/To the soldier, the civillian, the martyr, the victim/This is war... 30 Seconds to Mars: This is War
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **Yep, switched up a bit from the "A" theme I had going there for a while. The underlying theme of the whole string will either be proven correct, or I will have to remove it. Nonetheless, starting off, I am posting the definition of the fifth and final word in the "set". _

_A special shout out to **medcat** for her correct guess some time ago! _

_These fics represent the five stages of dealing with grief as outlined in the Kubler-Ross Model. As is sometimes the case in real life, they are not in the "traditional" order. However, there is a reason for this, as I hope you will understand in these, the final, chapters of this set of stories._

_I was going to give myself a break before launching into this next one, but I was too depressed after the epilogue of Part IV, so I had to do something. Besides, the characters changed the original story into this, and have been beating me over the head with it all day since I posted the finish for Part IV. Might as well get started then. Enjoy!_

* * *

_**an·ger**_

_1. a strong feeling of displeasure and belligerence aroused by a wrong; wrath; ire_

_-ing (verb)_

_to arouse anger or wrath in_

* * *

**Prologue**

Holmes sighed heavily as he heard the front door opening downstairs. From where he sat in his fireside chair in the sitting room, he could already deduce where his friend had been and why. His annoyance was only overshadowed by his concern as he heard Watson stumble up the seventeen stairs. Part of him wanted to go to his friend, to help him. The greater part of his mind remembered how badly that had ended for the both of them only two days ago. The man was stubborn. Even in his condition he would accept no help, of any kind.

As Watson stumbled against the sitting room door and apparently slid to the floor, Holmes set aside his pipe. Maybe if the man were unconscious he would be less likely to...

"What do you want?" Holmes heard Watson slurring drunkenly as he reached for the sitting room door.

"Dr. Watson! You are drunk! _Again!_" Mrs. Hudson fumed as she stormed up the stairs. "I would have expected such behavior from—"

Her next words were cut off as Watson gave a surprised yelp before falling backward into the sitting room when Holmes opened the door. As expected, Holmes found himself staring down at an inebriated, slovenly picture of what had once been his friend and partner, Dr. John Watson.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes started soothingly. "I'll—"

"It is _not _alright, Mr. Holmes!" she all but shrieked, her face turning a crimson that did not bode well for her tenants. "A month of this is too much! I will not stand by and—"

This time her words were cut off as Watson forced himself to a sitting position. "Enough! I'm right here!"

"Obviously," Mrs. Hudson said frostily, crossing her arms. "As you seem unable to even make it up to your room."

"Please, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes attempted placatingly, "I will take care of him."

Still quivering with fury and disappointment only a mother could convey to her children, Mrs. Hudson took in the entire scene one more time before turning to head back down the stairs to her own quarters. "See that you do."

Holmes waited just long enough for Watson to register the fact that she was gone before he took Watson by the arms and carefully hauled him to his feet. Staggering, he managed to get his friend to the settee with only a few bumps along the way. Unable to support himself, Watson instead fell to grumbling things best not repeated in polite company about the woman that had just berated him.

"That's enough, Watson," Holmes chided gently. "She means well. You know we all do."

"Is that what that is?" Watson slurred, his eyes half-closed once more. "And you always telling me to get back to work."

"It's more than that, and you well know it," Holmes snapped. "Do some writing. Play with your sketches. Something other than drinking, I think, would be more beneficial."

Watson seemed to fall into himself. "I can't. There's nothing left."

"So it seems now, dear friend. But it won't always be so."

Watson gave a rude snort. "What do you know about it?"

"I know you. That's all I have need to know."

"You think...you think..." Watson laughed mirthlessly as Holmes removed his shoes to make him more comfortable. "You know _nothing!_"

This anger did not come as a surprise, anymore. Watson seemed to run in cycles. Anger, depression, even something of denial from time to time would chase themselves around Watson's moods. Holmes had seen them in all their varieties. Every night Watson came home drunk he presented the same arguments over and over. Holmes had begun to wonder if his friend would ever snap out of it. He did not respond to this latest sample of rising anger, as he knew it would get him nowhere.

"Lie down, Watson. Sleep it—"

"I don't need your help!" Watson roared, pulling away from Holmes only to land unceremoniously on the floor.

"As you wish," Holmes said placidly, watching Watson struggle back to a sitting position. "However, when the vomiting begins, it would be best if you were not lying in it this time, at least."

Watson's face turned a magnificent shade of red at this volley. The verbal return from Watson had Holmes cocking an amused eyebrow in his direction as he crossed his arms.

"That's a good one. Pick that up at the Dancing Duck, did you?"

"Leave me alone."

"Alone is not what you need now."

"Go away."

"I'm not the one incapable of leaving the room, at present."

As expected, Watson covered his face in his hands as if to hide his misery. "Please..."

For a moment, Holmes hesitated. He still bore the bruise from the last time he attempted to comfort his friend in one of these fits. But, Watson had done no less for him over the years of their friendship. Kneeling beside his friend, Holmes gripped his shoulder and shook him gently.

"It was not your fault. You _know _that."

"You keep saying that," Watson sighed. "What makes you think it even matters to me anymore? He's still dead. They're _all_ dead! And I'm still here."

Holmes heart ached every time he heard these words. What could he really say to that?

"I want to sleep. Leave me alone."

Sighing for probably the hundredth time this week. Holmes nodded sadly before helping his friend back onto the settee. He waited for Watson to settle before covering him with a blanket. Stoking the fire, he returned to his chair.

Mrs. Hudson crept quietly back down the stairs from where she had listened through the still-open sitting room door.


	2. Chapter One

_**A/N: **I really, really did not want to leave people hanging. And there's the added incentive that my muses are not giving me a moment's peace until I quit dragging my fingers and get to work. So, here I present the first substantial chapter. It's not much, but it's something. However, if there are glaring mistakes, I own them fully. It's only been 60 hours since I crawled out of bed. I'm not too tired to be typing, really. No, I mean, how much damage can a tired writer do anyway? It's not as if I'm...Okay, so mass destruction on an epic scale can happen. We've all done it at least once, right? Right? It was an accident! lol Shutting up now._

* * *

**Chapter One**

As March led into April and Watson still did not seem to be recovering, Holmes began to lose patience. His own guilt for his failure in the situation that had lead to the death of Watson's son ate away at him; but he could not indulge in those emotions, as Watson suffered far worse. Holmes took up the role of the caregiver as his friend had for so many years before, and without complaint. Yet, as the weeks passed one after another, Watson seemed only to fall only deeper. What little money he had he spent freely on drink and the occasional round of races. More often than not, any interference from Holmes was treated with anything from pleading for help to violent bouts of anger.

Eventually it was the last that won the battle for dominance in his friend's character. And the target for Watson's anger presented himself daily in the form of his friend. Time and again he would lash out in verbal assaults without the slightest provocation. Holmes only had to be present for this to occur. As April led into early May, Watson no longer needed drink to initiate these rows. As they had done in the past, the two went rounds about there being easier ways to commit suicide, who was to blame for this mess, what mattered, what didn't, to whom...

It was on one of these nights after a rather spectacular argument that could be heard in the street below the sitting room windows that Watson stalked out of the house and made his way back to the now familiar comforts of the Dancing Duck. Holmes paced the sitting room like a tiger looking for a fresh kill. He had no need to think through the situation. These little encounters had only escalated from the originals in the last several weeks. They were nothing new. His mind knew every inch of them.

For once he was surprised that he was no longer craving. His black moods hadn't disappeared, not completely. But now he found other ways of exploring the darkness without letting it consume him completely. He had only to look at the broken wreck of his dear Watson to feel guilty enough stave off that darkness. He would have likely found amusement in this changing of positions in their partnership, but the circumstances were such that he could not.

Holmes waited long enough to ensure he had completely detached himself from his emotions before taking the next step in his plan.

~o~o~o~

Watson had become something of a regular fixture in his little corner seat at the Dancing Duck. Many of the constables and other law enforcement officials that had so happily welcomed him several weeks ago now glanced at the man periodically in pity. It was more to check on his state of consciousness than out of any consideration toward socializing. The man wanted his drink and misery. Many who graced these types of drinking establishments were the same. But none were Dr. Watson...until now. Often Lestrade was found to be sitting at the table with Watson, but they never spoke. As he had done in the past, Lestrade usually kept his peace until he thought Watson would be in a position to listen.

Tonight was_ not_ one of those nights.

He had endured numerous scathing tirades from Watson in recent weeks in regards to Mr. Holmes. Lestrade had thought they'd gotten beyond such differences. Initially he was surprised. He had seemed to genuinely forgive the man for his disappearance. They had seemed on exceptionally good terms only weeks before Watson was framed for murder. When Watson had first begun to make appearances at the Dancing Duck, he seemed only to want to avoid the man. Now, Lestrade wondered what the latest transgression was that had sparked these more recent episodes.

Lestrade had seen much between the two friends over the years. His somewhat distant role as something of a mentor to the pair had not diminished over the years. But he found a fiercely protective streak came to the fore when Holmes had abandoned his friend so thoroughly and for so long. He wasn't sure he could ever trust Holmes again, in that respect. As the weeks of the previous year came and went, Lestrade had seen reason to believe that perhaps he had been too harsh in his judgment.

There were just too many unanswered questions he dared not ask. He did not even want to know what would come from Watson when questioned directly. His tirades ranged from vague references of previous cases and disagreements to outright assaults on Holmes' character and lifestyle. While much of this had never been a real secret, some of it was shocking in its frankness. As Lestrade watched Watson reaching for his cup once more, he wondered what was really going on behind that man's lifeless green eyes.

"So, it is as I suspected. Well, Watson, if the consumption of alcohol is so desperately needed to tolerate the company within your present surroundings, perhaps you would be willing to consider a change of scenery."

The disdain in the detective's voice drew eyes from every corner of the building. Lestrade, having his back to the room, had not heard the man approach. Not that there was much he could have done, at any rate. The man would come whether welcome or not, it seemed.

Watson's bleary eyes tried to focus on Holmes, towering over them. Holmes did not wait for the verbal acknowledgement, as he doubted Watson was in any condition to give it.

"I have a case that will take us into the country. We can get away from all...this," he said, waving his hand around the room, the disgust plain in his voice.

"Go away."

"Really, Watson, it is time you put an end to this nonsense. You're the one always—"

"Get out."

"Perhaps you should at least consider a nice, quiet dose of morphine in the privacy of your room to this public display of stupidity!"

Watson mumbled something into his cup that didn't sound complimentary.

Lestrade sat back, not sure if it really was his place to get involved. They seemed alone in their little confrontation, at any rate. Lestrade did not need to exert much effort to melt into the background. He really _would_ like to see Watson out of here, preferably for some months. It would do him good. He only questioned if Holmes was the person he should be with at present, especially giving suggestions like that!

"I've shown you great patience in all of this. Now it is time for you to move on."

Silence had begun to descend as the combined crowd of law enforcement officials and general customers realized exactly who it was they were now seeing. Watson's next statement regarding Holmes' lineage earned wolfish grins from several of the patrons as those gathered smelled blood. The law enforcement officials bristled. Many of them wanted to know who this man thought he was to tell _their _police surgeon when to put off mourning. The tension grew as more edged closer to the scene of the disturbance.

"I've heard better," Holmes returned, unruffled.

Even Lestrade's eyebrows rose at Watson's next volley.

"Enough of this. I'm taking you back to our rooms and we are leaving," Holmes insisted, pulling Watson to his unsteady feet.

"That's all that matters to you! My son is dead and all you want is for me to go back to work! My usefulness to you—"

"You're_ useless _to me right now," Holmes cut him off calmly. "So that is obviously not why I am here. You would know that if you were sober enough to think through this for yourself."

"You cold-blooded, heartless, ba—"

"Honestly, Watson! As you've forced this to be a public display, then let us share the truth. You abandoned the brat and his mother before he was even born. You knew him less than a month. Why you insist—"

Lestrade had acted instinctively. He was rather proud he had not frozen in absolute shock. And, even for his quick reflexes, it still took a second man to help keep the doctor from finishing what he started. Watson snarled and raged, the vile invectives that flew from his tongue meshing and slurring into something almost animalistic. Holmes, blood pouring from his possibly broken nose, calmly rose to his feet. Every man in that building who knew Watson moved to take a defensive stance between the doctor and Holmes, though many looked as if they should be holding Holmes and letting Watson go at him.

"Very well then," Holmes stated coolly, eyeing Watson as if no one else in the room existed. "For the sake of our disbanded partnership and friendship, I give you one week to remove your belongings from my rooms. Good night, gentleman."

With that, Holmes swept back out the door. Those who did not move quickly enough met a steely gray-eyed glare that promised further violence.

None dared.

~o~o~o~

Holmes managed to make his way out of the door and down the nearest alley. It was over now. At least, his part in this mess was over. He could only hope and pray that Lestrade and the others could do for his friend what he could not. Maybe they could help Watson see reason. This madness was going to kill him before long. His shoulders slumping, he wondered if he had made the right decision.

Either way, there was no going back now.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

The first thing Watson became aware of was that he was not dead. No dead body could feel so much pain. It came from everywhere; most notably, his head. For a time the only thing he knew was pain. As his other senses slowly awakened, they sent even more input to his already overloaded brain. The scent of alcohol, the taste of vomit, the sound of horses hooves, the feel of cold stone, the light that blazed through his closed eyelids...A voice...

The words didn't make any sense. The voice may have been familiar, but it no longer mattered to him. Nothing mattered.

Gratefully he sank back into the darkness and numb oblivion.

~o~o~o~

"Leave off, Giles," Watson said miserably, cradling his head in his hands.

"You and I both know how much worse you could have wound up last night had Constable Mason not found you!" Lestrade scolded in a soft voice. "Now, I don't blame you for putting Holmes in his place..."

The rest of Lestrade's words were drowned out in the roar of blood rushing through his ears as Watson remembered the events of the previous night. Bits and pieces of a confrontation in the sitting room meshed with the sight of Holmes bleeding profusely from his nose while lying on his back on the floor of the Dancing Duck. The dull throb in Watson's hand informed him exactly who had inflicted that damage. He was surprised to realize that he didn't feel any concern; quite the opposite, in fact. As his mind slowly caught back up to the present, he grinned behind his hands.

_ He didn't think I could do it. _

His expression twisted again in pain a moment later as Lestrade gently took his hands away to look him in the face. The blinding light he had been trying to avoid stabbed ruthlessly through his pounding skull.

"Listen to me, John!" Lestrade hissed.

"I am, I am," Watson waved at him, flopping back limply on the bed. "You're on about my drinking and so on and so forth. You're really starting to sound like Cee. Maybe you need to get out more."

That last was said as a malicious stab that garnered the desired effect. Lestrade's face suffused with blood as he attempted to reign in his own temper.

"I wouldn't know. I've spent more of my nights watching you crawl into a bottle than with her and the children lately."

This stung Watson somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew this wasn't right, but that he had had no other choice. It had lead to the death of his brother, among others. And this was the first time he could recall Lestrade having directly addressed his current state. Whatever he felt toward Holmes, Lestrade did not deserve such treatment.

"You're right, of course. I apologize," Watson said quietly after a moment.

Lestrade heaved a sigh and he all but folded in on himself. "John..."

"Please, just let it go for right now. I'll be coming to the Yard later, anyway. We can talk more, then."

"Needing work again?"

Watson's greenish tinted face flushed momentarily as he nodded. The bitterness in his next statement made Lestrade cringe internally. "It's not like I have much a choice now. Holmes has seen to that much."

"John—"

"Don't! Don't even say it. I'll make arrangements. I'm better off on my own anyway."

"You know we have—"

"No. Thank you, but no."

Defeated, but not surprised, Lestrade could only nod sadly. "Now that the house is so empty with all the children grown and gone, Cee would appreciate the company. It's an open offer, should you ever reconsider."

"I know."

Knowing there was little more to be said for the time being, Lestrade stood and turned to leave with reluctance. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Watson's thoughtful expression was wiped away quickly as he dropped a stony mask into place. No, he would not exactly enjoy the confrontation with Holmes, but he was not about to send someone in his place, either.

"Thank you, but no."

Lestrade nodded and closed the door quietly behind him as he left Watson's room. Word of the confrontation in the Dancing Duck had spread like wildfire through the ranks. Half felt Holmes was justified in his actions, as their police surgeon was obviously on the edge of breaking completely. Others felt Lestrade should have been slower in his response. No matter how one looked at it, there was sympathy for both parties. However, when it came down to it, Dr. Watson was one of their own. They took care of their own. After Dr. Watson had stumbled out of the Dancing Duck in a drunken stupor, several had made the offer to follow and keep the man from getting himself killed. Lestrade had been the first. He was not quite sure how a man so completely intoxicated could have possibly evaded him. He chalked it up to experience with Holmes' prowls about the nooks and crannies of the city.

When a constable had found him shortly after sunrise tucked into a tiny nook between buildings, he had taken pity on the poor man. He was not unfamiliar with Dr. Watson's grief, as he had himself lost his only son this past winter. The constable had sent word to Scotland Yard to let Lestrade know where he had been found and where he was headed. The constable had kindly taken Watson to a hotel of relatively good repute that was known for not asking questions. As a favor to the constable who often kept the place from sinking into the pits of similar establishments, they agreed to take the nearly insensate man. The constable had seen him relatively settled, and then left him for Lestrade's judgment afterward.

Lestrade could not deny that there was some part of him that thought Watson could use a night or two back in a gaol to put things into perspective. But he had been there that horrible day. He had not expected to live very long himself once the young man had started his confession. He was obviously desperate. The struggle for the gun had been so unexpected, he'd barely had time to register the danger he was in before everything fell apart. As a father, he couldn't even begin to imagine what Watson was suffering. He had now lost all three of his children. As a friend, he was helpless to do anything more for the man as he would not allow it. As a law enforcement official, he wanted to knock Watson around the head for his recent behavior.

Again, he considered his judgment of Holmes far too harsh. Holmes had more than proven himself in the year since his return from the dead. And yet, there was something in Watson's demeanor, more so than his words, that left a gnawing sense of doubt in the pit of Lestrade's stomach.

Lestrade stood indecisively on the sidewalk in the early afternoon sunlight. He knew where he needed to be. He knew where he was not wanted. He knew this was a bad idea, even as his feet turned in the direction of Baker Street.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade wasn't sure what he was expecting to find when he rang the bell at 221B Baker Street. Holmes had said the night before that he had a case that would take him off into the country. Even as he waited a response to his ring, he wondered if the man was still there. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson...

The page boy quickly confirmed that Mr. Holmes was home, but not really in any frame of mind to speak without quite saying as much. More than familiar with these fits in his own way, Lestrade ignored the boys attempts to see him back out the door. As the boy ran for the maid or Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade let himself into the sitting room. He found Holmes sprawled out on the settee staring glassy-eyed out the window. The cause of this was easily enough determined as the bottle and syringe were sitting neatly on the table in front of the detective. Though Lestrade had never had the pleasure of dealing with the detective directly in such a state, he'd heard enough from Watson in recent weeks to guess.

"It's fine, Ms. Nessa," Holmes called as the maid appeared. "I will deal with this myself."

Though Holmes' eyes never strayed from their distant place somewhere only he could see, the woman curtsied politely. "Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes."

A moment later the sitting room door was closed, and Lestrade found himself alone with something other than the man he had been hoping to see today. Nonetheless, he was here; so he might as well see how much he could get out of the man. Lestrade waited for Mr. Holmes to at least make some sort of attempt toward observation of basic courtesy. When he did not, Lestrade came around the settee and sat himself in Holmes' desk chair facing the detective as he refused to meet gazes or even acknowledge his presence.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Does it really surprise you so much, Lestrade?" Holmes asked, in a distant voice. "I have no doubts that Watson has quite sufficiently filled your ears with numerous tales of my shortcomings."

Lestrade sighed at the note of despair in the man's voice. Yes, he had heard enough. But he had never expected to see it for himself. The man who could run himself into the ground and everyone around him with his boundless energy sat here before him in the throes of a bleakness of body and mind that he could not begin to contemplate for himself.

"No and yes," Lestrade finally answered. "I've heard enough recently, though I don't claim to understand the half of it."

Instead of one of the typically scathing remarks on the limits of his vision and intelligence that he had been expecting, Holmes' next words startled him.

"Neither do I."

Before he could form a response from his scattered thoughts, Holmes continued.

"He is well?"

"That depends on one's definition of well. If by 'well' you mean 'alive', then yes, I suppose he's well enough."

This brought Holmes' glazed gray eyes to meet Lestrade's at last. He seemed to be asking so many questions, Lestrade could not quite grasp. Lestrade wondered if Holmes in his present condition could even understand those questions for himself. Finally the eyes solidified into something not quite certain.

"I did not abandon him."

Again Lestrade was taken aback. His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he said, "I did not say you had."

Holmes seemed to relax, as if the verbal blow he had been expecting had never materialized. "Good, that's...good."

Lestrade was finding it difficult to voice his own thoughts, as the detective seemed so very far away from all of this right now. Would anything he said now even penetrate the man's obviously confused and hurt thoughts? Oh yes, he knew Holmes could be cold-hearted at times. But where Watson was concerned, the man most definitely had a heart. He wondered how much of that heart was Watson's doing. And how much of that heart had been lost in this break.

"What would you have me do?"

Holmes turned his gaze back to the inspector curious surprise in his eyes.

"I know you didn't abandon him, Mr. Holmes. I know you tried. I'll give you that much. And I have no doubts you set that little confrontation where and when you did for a reason."

Holmes lips twitched in a grin as he nodded slowly. "You take care of your own. You claim Watson, such as he is. I leave him to you."

Lestrade could not help the frown of disappointment. He had suspected as much, but hearing it from the man directly did not make it any easier. "You think there's something we can do?"

"It is no different than the last time, I imagine. Simply repeat your earlier performance," Holmes suggested with some earnestness. "As long as he remained here, he knew he could do as he wished and there was little I or anyone else could do to stop him. Out there, he has to at least provide for himself. And, I have no doubts he will gladly return to his work as a police surgeon once more."

"He said he would be coming down to the Yard later today."

Holmes only nodded to this. He seemed to struggle with something for a moment before his expression finally smoothed once more. "Keep watching him, Lestrade. There is more than we know."

"What are you saying?"

Holmes eyes grew distant. He seemed to be speaking to someone other than Lestrade. "There is much more. We cannot be aware of all facets of a man's character, especially such a one as Watson. He is angry. I do not know for which of the countless offenses I have committed that he is feeling this way. Perhaps all of them. You know as well as I do, he does not anger easily. None have seen him this angered before, I don't doubt. We cannot predict his actions or his reasoning, if there is any at this point in time."

Though Holmes' statements seemed very straightforward, Lestrade could not help the feeling that he was missing something vitally important here. Holmes' mind had obviously wandered away again in his drug-induced haze. Knowing he would get little more out of the man, Lestrade watched for a moment before letting himself out.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Watson's arrival at Baker Street a couple of hours later was met with less occasion. The page boy glanced at him as he let himself in with his key. He looked a mess, and he knew it. Stumbling miserably up the stairs, he stopped by his room for a change of clothing and to pack a small bag. For the time being, he might as well stay where the constable had left him. After settling the bill with the establishment owner, he found it was within his means for now and as good of a place as any. He would wait until he'd spoken with Lestrade down at Scotland Yard before making further arrangements.

Refreshed, but feeling no less of a miserable wretch than he had that morning, Watson descended the stairs once more, placing his small bag of needed belongings just outside the sitting room door. He could guess what he would find beyond that door. Obviously Holmes was present, or the door would have been opened by now. He did not smell the overwhelming presence of tobacco as Holmes would often smoke heavily during his case sessions. He caught sight of the maid quietly dusting around the hallway landing as he opened the sitting room door.

For a moment Watson froze in shock. He could just make out the lump of Holmes' shape wrapped in his old dressing gown on the settee. The syringe and bottle on the coffee table before him stole his breath for a moment as the fury bubbled up inside of him. Hands trembling with the effort not to repeat last night's performance, he clenched his fists as he came around the settee, the open door forgotten.

"It did not take you very long, did it?" he finally managed to choke out.

Watson was not surprised that it took the detective a few moments to acknowledge his presence. Holmes cocked his head and stared glassy-eyed back at the doctor.

"Come to get your things?"

"You have the audacity to accuse me of suicide while you...you sit here with...you..." the red rage behind his swirling confusion of thoughts left Watson choking on his own words. "How _dare_ you!"

Holmes dark laughter made something inside Watson snap. In an instant, he had Holmes half-lifted off the settee with an iron grip on his shirt and dressing gown. The maid froze in the doorway not entirely sure if she should be going out to find a constable. Holmes' perfectly calm, yet almost amused, gaze in the sight of such threat convinced her to wait.

"As you seem to have abandoned our partnership, along with any responsibilities toward me, _Doctor,_ you have no rights to say anything."

In disgust, Watson flung Holmes' roughly back onto the settee. Stalking toward the door, he threw over his shoulder. "I'll be back for the rest of my possessions when I have found rooms."

"Don't forget to leave your key with Ms. Nessa," Holmes called back, shifting himself on the settee into a more comfortable position.

Watson tossed the keys at the young woman as he picked up his valise and swiftly stormed out of the house and back into the street. His face a mask of fury, people felt the need to give him a wide berth as his limping steps took him away from the place he had so long thought of as home.

~o~o~o~

After returning to his room and depositing his bag, Watson checked himself over in the mirror. He appeared presentable enough. He was not relishing this next task, as it would only dig himself deeper. But if he were to proceed with his own plans, there was little choice in the matter. He had put himself into this position, and now it was up to him to get himself out of it. He had no doubts that his next conversation with Lestrade was not likely to be a pleasant one.

When he arrived at Scotland Yard offices some time later, he found his face coloring slightly as many eyes turned to him briefly. By now they all knew. Summoning his dignity, he marched beyond the entrance and toward Lestrade's office. Catching sight of The Corner, he hesitated. While this was not his first trip back to the Yard since that day, the sight of that corner of the offices never failed to draw a shadow over his consciousness. Plagued by guilt and grief he could not hope to hide, he marched stiffly past that area deliberately keeping his eyes forward.

Lestrade answered the knock on the door as if already knowing who had come seeking him. With a casual wave toward something resembling a chair covered in stacks of papers, he resumed his seat behind his desk. For a moment he eyed the doctor closely.

"Maybe you should take a few days before you come back," Lestrade suggested tentatively.

Watson waved impatiently. "I'm fine, Lestrade. I would like to see what you have for me."

He had already known the answer he would receive, obviously. He wasted no time in pulling a stack of papers out of his desk. Watson was grateful that nothing more was said as they began discussing current cases. Without a doubt, there would be much for him to do in the coming weeks, as his availability as a police surgeon made him available to all, and not just Lestrade.

~o~o~o~

Holmes woke late into the night, sensing more than hearing the seeming emptiness of the house around him. He sighed deeply, almost wishing Mrs. Hudson were still here. She had decided a few days ago to let her tenants sort out their own problems and taken a holiday to visit her sister for a couple of weeks. He could really use a pot of coffee at this point. As the maid and page boy were long gone for the night, he would have to do for himself. He was almost surprised at this point. Being in the position that he had been in the last several hours, he was certain there would have been more visitors of a less forgiving nature. He knew he was being watched. Both he and Watson had been under scrutiny for some time now. But there was little he could do about it, so he let events take their course.

Placing the bottle and the syringe in their drawer within his desk and then locking it securely, he tied his dressing gown closed and located his slippers. Slowly he made his way down the stairs and to the kitchen. He wondered at his own paranoia when he stopped for a moment to consider the walking sticks within the stand next to the foyer door. Shaking off the encroaching feeling of threat, he turned his attention toward the task at hand.

His mind carefully replayed the events of the last day and half as he looked for any flaw. Any detail his mind could grab that could turn this situation around or to his advantage. There seemed none. It was flawless, and he was helpless to do anything about it. All he could do was follow the advice he had so very recently given his friend, move on.

He had not lied to Watson when he said he had a case out in the country. It seemed there were a flood of recent cases. All of them just seemed so...petty. They were all meaningless in light of all the other events around him right here in London. Now that half of his time was no longer occupied with tending to his friend, he was free to pursue any or all of these cases at his convenience. After today, it seemed that to be his best course of action. He needed to keep himself busy somehow.

Yet, he could not get beyond the feeling that they all seemed so meaningless in some way without his friend by his side.

Taking the freshly brewed tray of coffee back up to the sitting room carefully, he prepared himself for a long night. He was not surprised to find that going through the stacks of cases and information at his disposal was far easier than the perusal of his own thoughts.

~o~o~o~

They were baiting him. He could feel it.

Holmes prowled the sitting room littered with papers. His investigations into the activities of this shadowy organization that had begun a few months previous had come to a crashing halt with William's death. Though Watson had shared what information he had gained from William on the night he had confessed everything to his father, there seemed little enough on which to proceed. Afterward, he had been in no condition, it seemed, to pursue the investigation. Then, as events had taken their course, there seemed too many other things going on for Holmes to return to his original lines of inquiry. Those original sources had either dried up or disappeared in ways that left him no doubt that they had been silenced permanently.

He had not had the time or inclination to be frustrated at that point, as his time was occupied elsewhere. With the nearly constant string of cases being flung his way, he had little time to really consider this, either. In the last couple of weeks since Watson had removed his belongings and made his extraction from Holmes' affairs final, he had come to sense the change. As if scenting blood in the air, the organization had been feeding him a string of cases that could so very easily be traced back to some of their more forward activities.

They were testing him.

It was an act of willpower not to give in to the temptation to chase them. That was a line of inquiry he knew would end nowhere. They wanted to see if he still expressed an interest in their activities. This constant watching by various eyes and ears throughout London had had him on edge long enough. He could sense their anticipation and frustration as he continued to go about his business as if nothing had changed. He knew he could do nothing useful at this point in time, especially when Watson was in such a vulnerable position. With Watson roaming freely as a target, Holmes did not dare make a move that would cause them to go after the doctor again.

Stalking, growling to himself, Holmes turned these thoughts over in his mind. He did not know how much longer the situation could continue. Even if only for his own peace of mind, he had to make a move. Any move he could consider would leave others open for attack. Picking up a stack of papers from its resting place on the floor, Holmes began to formulate a plan that might just make them at least show their hand.

~o~o~o~

They were watching him. He could feel it.

As the days of May slowly rolled past, Watson found his thoughts less clouded as he focused more and more on the work at hand. One after another, he hopped from case to case for the Scotland Yard inspectors. He still spent more time in the Dancing Duck than some would have liked, but he always made a point of presenting himself the next day ready to attend to his duties without complaint. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. He had sensed their eyes on him for weeks.

He wondered how much more he could take before he slipped. He knew his position was precarious, at best. Some had seriously considered him not ready to resume any duties at all. He had pushed himself to prove otherwise. Thus far he had performed beyond their usual expectations in the past, even solving some cases within hours as he inspected the bodies for evidence.

It seemed his entire meaningless existence had narrowed to this. He had no need to turn his thoughts to the events that had lead to this moment. But he also knew he had made the right decision. His last encounter with Holmes had proved that much. He only wondered why he had ever forgiven the man in the first place. He should have walked away the moment the man had reappeared in his life as if expecting everything to go back to the way he wanted it.

Watson's thoughts were interrupted as Lestrade approached his miserable excuse for a desk. Feigning interest in the reports littering his desk, he hoped the man would go away. His constant badgering was beyond tiresome at this point. When he caught sight of the tension all but screaming from every inch of the man's posture, he paused. Something was very wrong.

"Dr. Watson, may I have a word with you in my office?" the inspector asked, maintaining their professional appearances when in the presence of others.

"Of course, Inspector," Watson returned, slightly confused but on the alert.

Only once the door had closed behind them did Lestrade speak once more.

"Holmes has been injured."

As expected, something flashed through those green eyes, but Watson quickly concealed it behind an unreadable mask.

"There were some complications in extracting the bullet from his arm. The surgeons say he will be back to working order within a few weeks and should recover fully in time."

"Too bad."

Lestrade thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head. "I beg your pardon?"

Watson grunted, irritation coming through the stony mask of indifference. He turned to open the office door. "I think you heard me well enough."

Lestrade followed the doctor out of his office and back into the corridor. Recovering his scattered wits, he grabbed the man by the arm and spun him around roughly.

"Just what the devil do you mean by this?"

"If you want to give me some news to cheer me up, try giving me the name of the man who shot Mr. Holmes so I can shake his hand and thank him!" Watson shouted, making every eye turn his direction.

Lestrade was speechless. He watched as Watson walked away wondering who or what had possessed the man. It may have looked like Watson, but the John Watson he knew could never have been so callous, especially toward Holmes. The man had seemed disappointed with the news that Holmes would survive his latest brush with death intact!

As activity around him resumed, Lestrade decided he was finished for the day. Closing and locking his office door, he headed for the Dancing Duck. This time it was his turn to indulge. Maybe then he could at least try to see things from Watson's perspective. At the moment, he didn't think his sense of reality could be any more skewed anyway.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Watson's head swam in a haze of blurred thoughts as he stumbled the last few feet to his house in the early June heat. He was glad his rooms were close enough to his newest haunt that he didn't have far to walk. Somewhere in the confusion of his thoughts something screamed a warning in the back of his mind. He had not really had that much to drink today. But then, he couldn't remember most of his day. Fumbling with his key trying to find the lock on his door, he wondered briefly at the sounds of so many people shuffling around him. They seemed to be louder than usual, as if...

Whatever his next thought might have been ended abruptly as a wiry arm snaked around his neck and another held something to his face. He vaguely thought the scent was familiar, before darkness consumed him.

~o~o~o~

The sensation that his brain was trying to pound its way out of his skull greeted his return to consciousness. The second was that the air within the hood over his head was hot and stale. Fighting the rising sense of panic at the thought of suffocation, Watson attempted to focus his meager thoughts on his present surroundings. He could hear nothing. His own panicked breathing echoed dully off the walls. The black material that comprised his hood combined with the blindfold he just realized he was wearing, left him completely blind. Any movements he might have made beyond raising his head were severely hampered as he felt the rope bindings cutting into his arms, legs, and chest.

A movement more sensed than heard off to his right had him turning his head to better hear.

"Where am I? What do you want with me?"

His answer came in the form of a heavy door opening and then closing again as the presence exited the room. For a time Watson focused on the bindings realizing they were actually quite well done, as he had several past experiences on which to draw. He fought back the rising nausea from the lingering effects of combined alcohol, chloroform, and something else he couldn't identify. Though grateful he hadn't been gagged, he could not help his mind wondering why. Before he swiftly clearing thoughts could postulate any theories, the door opened once more.

This time Watson heard several sets of footsteps as they approached from behind. Forcing some semblance of order into the chaos of his mind, Watson set himself for whatever was to come next.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," a young, haughty male voice addressed.

"You have the advantage of me," Watson responded calmly.

"And so it must remain, I'm afraid," the voice returned with mock sincerity.

"What do you want?" he asked forcing weary boredom into his voice. "You must know that if it involves Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you've wasted your time."

"Quite the contrary. It _does _involve Mr. Holmes, though not in the way you are likely thinking."

Watson waited patiently, seeing no need to comment upon this.

"We understand there has been some..tension...of late."

Watson chuckled darkly. "Why don't you just come out and say it? The man is a—"

"Yes, yes, we know your vocalized feelings upon the matter. What we question is your sincerity."

"What does it matter to you?"

"What kind of game are you playing, Doctor?"

This time Watson laughed outright. "Whoever you are, you might as well explain yourselves. I think I have some theories. But if you would really like to test my sincerity, please, lock me in a room with him for a few hours."

For a moment there was a shuffling sound and whispers Watson could not quite catch. After a while they seemed to come to some sort of decision.

"We could do that," an older voice said, coming forward a bit.

"It's never that easy. There's more. You want something. And I don't particularly care to hang for murder, as you've already placed me in _that _position once."

"You are correct, of course. And that would mean we could never trust your loyalty to us, should we even consider the offer. Therefore we are at something of an impasse, I would say."

"Correct," Watson agreed. "You want some proof of my sincerity in the desire to see Mr. Holmes come to harm. But I will say, death is too good—too easy—for him. If you're going to put me through the paces, you could at least come up with something more creative. I'm sure you have others that can attend to such dirty work."

"Or, we could kill you now and dispense with the other pleasantries."

Watson laughed again. "Do you really think that weighs very heavily on me these days? If it suits your purposes, by all means, do as you wish."

Watson waited, as there seemed no further need for debate amongst his captors. They had already made their decision. He had only to force them into taking an action, one way or the other. The cocking of a pistol so very close to his forehead gave him his answer.

"Very well then," Watson agreed with a slight nod.

He waited calmly for what he knew would come next.

~o~o~o~

Holmes stared at the darkened windows of Watson's room from his position across the street. The man had disappeared completely. While he had been watching the men who had been watching the doctor, he had not expected such a bold move. There seemed no desperation in the action, no hurry. It was as if they were simply picking up a package for delivery elsewhere. Then they had simply changed their direction and moved to take positions in the alleys around the building. Holmes could not help wondering if he had been mistaken. But as he had no way of approaching the building unseen or without drawing attention to his actions, there seemed little more he could do.

When the gaslights failed to light the windows of Watson's rooms, he knew what had happened. There had to have been a second group indoors. And, again, he was trapped, as he knew he was watching the watchers as they were watching him. Smiling at this clever little trap, Holmes could only maintain his current position and wait.

His hopes of finding leads to the organization dwindled daily. This had been something of a last resort. He had hoped to do so without drawing attention to his actions, but that seemed to have rather worked against him. Cursing Watson silently, he shifted his uncomfortable position on the sidewalk. This had the effect of drawing the eye of a patrolling constable. Groaning to himself, Holmes waited for the inevitable. As expected, the man drove him off, leaving him no choice but to return to Baker Street as secretively as he had left it.

If the men who had taken the doctor hadn't killed him already, Holmes would take great pleasure in doing so himself at this point.

~o~o~o~

When the expected gunshot never happened, Watson shook his head as he laughed. "As I expected, you don't like doing the dirty work for yourselves."

He heard murmured growls as some of those gathered took offense to being so easily read by a man blindfolded and bound.

"Can we continue now? I would very much like to see my own bed before the night is over, and these bindings are rather uncomfortable."

There was silence for a moment, as the speaker retreated a few steps. "Then we shall call it what it is, a negotiation," the speaker agreed.

"Good. Now, you tell me what you want me to do, and I will decide if it is worth my time and effort. I will not bother asking any of the expected questions, as you are likely not inclined to answer. I have no desire to know your greater plans. They don't apply to me, and I won't live long enough to see them. When you are done with me, I may be found floating in the Thames, if you are kind enough to give Scotland Yard something to bury at all. Have I left out anything?"

"We will agree to your terms, there will be a body."

"That is settled then. Now, what is it you want me to do? I would greatly appreciate at least knowing that Holmes will suffer greatly before the end."

"If that will ensure your continued cooperation, then yes."

Watson smiled eagerly behind the hood. "Then it's your move, gentlemen."


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Holmes cursed loudly in various languages into the empty air of the sitting room. The blistering heat had done little for his temper lately and the failure to follow up on his leads had left him with little patience. After forcefully removing his most recent client from the house, he found himself at odds. There was no lack of cases, but most of those required little more than a quick telegram to resolve at this point.

Glaring balefully at Watson's former fireside chair, he felt he could cheerfully strangle the man.

He did _not _want to be dealing with Watson right now. The man was infuriating. Lestrade was supposed to keep him busy and out of his hair. Instead the blasted man sobers up and decides to apologize!

Three weeks into June and Holmes could not decide if he wanted to make the man crawl back on his belly begging forgiveness or keep brushing him off. He had to give Watson credit for effort, but he questioned the man's sincerity. Even Lestrade had begun to treat him with barely concealed disdain as he continued to spurn Watson's attempts at reconciliation. Obviously some at the Yard believed Watson to be sincere, though Holmes could not imagine why.

Flinging himself into his chair beside the empty fireplace, he scowled at Watson's chair. He'd lost count weeks ago of the times he had caught himself listening for Watson's uneven gait upon the stairs. He'd even caught himself turning to the chair by the fireplace or the settee half expecting the man to be there, waiting for him. Holmes thought he had finally worked this out of his system once more, as it was not the first time he had lived without Watson sharing these rooms.

Holmes almost could not believe this was happening. He'd long hoped Watson would find some sense of reason and end this madness. It seemed Holmes was incorrect in his assumption, since things had only deteriorated. After weeks of silence, he now had to admit, he was no longer truly opposed to the idea. It had its merits, and had worked out beautifully thus far.

His current chain of thoughts involving Watson were disturbed moments later as a still disgruntled Mrs. Hudson carefully opened the sitting room door. Placing the tea tray on the table, he caught sight of the second cup and wondered that he had not heard the bell ring.

"Dr. Watson is waiting for you downstairs. That is, if you are willing to entertain _guests,"_ she tossed at him acidly, once again making her displeasure known in every movement.

Holmes well knew her thoughts upon the matter regarding Watson's eviction. As far as she was concerned, it was _her _place to evict them and no one else's. He had spent hours fending her off as she continued to assault him in a variety of small and inconvenient ways. Now, he was faced with leaving the house for the remainder of his day to avoid her wrath and Watson's visit. Or he could do as she wished and allow the doctor to speak. Dropping his head onto his knees as they were curled up to his chest, he gave something approximating a nod. This must have at least softened her somewhat, as she only gave him a disapproving sniff this time as she strode back out of the sitting room.

Moments later he heard that so familiar uneven gait upon the stairs. He sighed to himself, keeping his head down as he wondered how many more times he would hear it. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of playing the gracious host as he had in the past. Somewhere deep inside, he was just too tired to care about pretenses anymore.

"Come," he called to the tentative knock on the door, not even bothering to stir from where he sat.

Briefly he wondered to where his energy had fled as Watson let himself in quietly.

"Holmes?"

Not even bothering to mask his current state, Holmes forced himself to meet that concerned gaze. "What do you want, Dr. Watson?"

Disappointment flashed in those green eyes, before they quickly returned to the pinched expression of genuine concern. "Are you quite well?"

Somewhere Holmes found the energy to take himself into hand. He rose from his rather cramped and disadvantageous position. "Must we play these games?"

With his back to the doctor, he did not see the momentary flash of something malevolent in those features. "Do you wish me to leave?"

Finally Holmes sighed wearily. He gestured toward the table and tea. "Please, help yourself. What would you like to play today? Shall it be guilt? Remorse? Mutual understanding? A combination of all of them? How about you just play the physician today? _That _at least gives me some options for appropriate responses."

Watson's face darkened as he attempted to control his temper. "No games."

Holmes glare sharpened as his steely gray eyes met the doctor's. For several seconds the two stared each other down. There was no indication of who had lost that silent match, as they both turned away for a moment wrapped in their own thoughts.

"Now that we've established the parameters for today's events, shall we continue?" Holmes finally asked, taking up his pipe.

"I was thinking of a quiet night spent in some rather more public environs, if that suits you. Simpson's?"

_This should prove entertaining, _Holmes thought to himself as he lit his pipe.

Holmes humphed a noncommittal response as he accepted the tea Watson had prepared.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Holmes asked softly, keeping his gazed locked on the cup in his hand.

Thankfully he missed the sinister smile that flashed across Watson's face in an unguarded moment. "Have I not made my intentions clear enough to you?"

Holmes nodded slowly, deep in thought. "So long as you are certain."

"It is good to know at least one of us is, at any rate," Watson chimed cheerfully, taking his seat across from the fire for the first time in weeks.

Watson grinned openly as Holmes' lips twitched in the approximation of a smile. There still seemed little humor in the situation, yet each could take comfort in the familiarity of their surroundings for the moment. Holmes then allowed Watson to lead the course of their conversation as it meandered through various inconsequential and mundane subjects.

Holmes could not shake the sensation of threat growing somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

~o~o~o~

Following a relatively pleasant evening spent with Watson, Holmes returned to his rooms at Baker Street. There was much to consider. As he and Watson resumed their previously interrupted relationship, Holmes wondered briefly that it was too easy. All of this was too easy. The pessimistic side of his brain continued to scream warnings at him that something was going to go horribly wrong. He'd done his part, and played the companion tonight as Watson had seemed to prefer. But the darkness growing in his soul screamed for something more.

"So, you managed not to do each other bodily harm this time, at least," Mrs. Hudson greeted him in the foyer, her visual inspection of her remaining tenant obvious.

Despite his irritation, Holmes could not resist a verbal prodding of his own in return. "You'll be quite happy to know that I left no evidence."

Mrs. Hudson's face darkened for a moment as she pointedly glanced at his knuckles. "Is that so?"

Holmes lips twitched as he forced himself to refrain from further teasing. "He was returned in the same condition in which he arrived here."

"Good," she huffed, still not pleased.

Forgoing any further verbal dancing, Holmes wearily leaned against the wall behind him. "What of you, Mrs. Hudson?"

For a moment, she appeared taken aback by such a direct, yet vague question. "What of me, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes fond expression then could only be described as nostalgic. "We're getting too old for these games, aren't we?"

Completely at a loss as to what her tenant could be thinking, Mrs. Hudson just shook her head in bemusement. "You, sir, need to be in your bed."

Holmes smiled warmly. "As you wish, dear lady."

For a moment, Mrs. Hudson considered asking Holmes just how much he had had to drink that night. Knowing this would only stir bad memories of recent months when Watson was still living within these walls, she changed her mind. "Off with you," she shooed him with a wave of her hand toward the stairs.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good night, Mr. Holmes."

~o~o~o~

The next morning Mrs. Hudson nearly stumbled as she entered the sitting room to find it cleaner and neater than she had ever seen in all her years with Mr. Holmes. Even during his three-year absence she had not had the heart to do more than dust and ensure everything was still present. Now, everything was put in a place, and that placed seemed to suit a purpose. She sensed something more deliberate here than a peace offering as she allowed her eyes to take in this vision of the sitting room. Something about this entire scene sent warning bells sounding in her mind.

Her heart racing, she knocked on Holmes' bedroom door. When she received no response, she let herself in. She only truly recognized her fear in the wave of relief as she realized Holmes' room was empty. It was in the same state of disarray she had always come to expect, though the bed was unoccupied. She had not realized how terrified she was or what she expected to find. This, at least, eased her fears somewhat. Though the whole situation felt unnatural to her somehow. There was a sense of presence here in this room that had vanished within the sitting room.

Forcibly calming herself, she closed the door behind her and made her way back down the stairs to the kitchen.


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N: **woohoo! This chapter will make 100,000 words in this endeavor. Just thought I'd throw that out there. Thank you to everyone who has been with me all this time. For those of you reading this later down the road, thank you for making it this far. Don't worry, it gets worse. lol_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Nearly a week after his night out with Holmes, Watson received a message slipped under the door of his dingy little room. Still somewhat fuzzy headed from his latest round at the tavern around the corner from his building, he considered ignoring it for a change. Things had not progressed as swiftly as he would have liked the last few weeks. Though he seemed to have finally had something of a breakthrough with Holmes, the man had immediately after disappeared. He'd come by the following day in the hopes of Holmes perhaps finally letting him in on recent activities involving cases and investigations. He had been sorely disappointed to find the man gone. Though his employers had not made any serious demands as of yet, he could only imagine how impatient they were becoming with his lack of progress in that quarter.

It was now early July and the heat even at this time of night made Watson more inclined to simply forget the whole situation and instead take a long holiday far, far away. He needed to get out of London. It wasn't just this whole business with Holmes, either. He was tired. He found the weariness of his life catching up to him once again as he was reminded repeatedly that he was not as young as he used to be anymore.

Heaving himself off the uncomfortable window-side chair, he snatched up the note. Ruthlessly he squashed the hope that it was Holmes requesting his assistance. As expected, he was to attend some shadowy meeting with an unknown person in a dark corner of the city. This was starting to all feel rather cliché anymore. At least they didn't bother with the drugging and binding this time.

Grabbing his coat, he quietly left his room behind. Had he realized it was the last time he would ever see that room again, he might have considered taking his gun along for the trip.

~o~o~o~

"He _what?"_ Watson hissed, his fists clenching in anger.

He desperately needed a target, though he didn't dare turn around to lash out at the voice that spoke behind him. Only barely resisting the urge to break his hand on the stone wall before him, Watson forced himself to focus beyond the fury that had the blood roaring through his ears.

"...all gone. He's not coming back, and we need to know where he is. _Now!"_

Watson laughed darkly. "Meaning you wish to interrogate me?" he sneered back at the voice.

"If necessary."

"He didn't trust me enough to tell me he was leaving, let alone what he was working on at the time," Watson snapped. He let fly some rather colorful language before he continued. "He left! And if he took all of that with him, he's not planning on returning. It's Reichenbach Falls all over again."

"He gave you no clues."

"Unless it involves something in the wine we drank or his sickening lectures on recent violin composers..."

"At least you are telling the truth in that much," another voice spoke up somewhere further off in the shadows.

"As to our conversations in the sitting room, I'm sure that slip of a girl Holmes has employed will be happy enough to tell you more. She gossips often enough. Or the page boy, for a little extra coin."

"Already done."

"Then what do you expect me to do about it? He left me behind, _again! _He..."

The silence grew thick as Watson's face turned from anger to surprised understanding. "He knows."

"He knows _what,_ Dr. Watson?" the voice to the side questioned threateningly.

Watson laughed. In a way it was a relief. "Game. He was saying something about games. He wasn't just referring to our little verbal sparring matches. He _knew! That's _why he disappeared. He _knew _I was playing more than one game."

"This is not a game, Doctor," the voice behind him spoke as a gun was readied.

"It was to him. Now it's over. He's gone, and he obviously didn't trust my reconciliation to be sincere in the first place. He was waiting to see what I was planning."

"And what _are_ you planning?" the voice to the side asked, coldly.

Watson shrugged. "Nothing. My part in this affair is obviously concluded. We had an agreement. A body will be found."

"So eager to die, Dr. Watson?" a third, younger voice asked in amusement.

"Enough with the banter, please," Watson requested wearily. "I've outlived my usefulness in this situation. We both know how it ends."

"That may be true. However, it _does_ seem something of a waste of resources."

"Ah, there is more you wish to know of Mr. Holmes," Watson stated, tensing. He did not like where this was going.

"We've learned all we can through his files, personal possessions, and recent activity. I doubt there is much you could tell us that we don't already know. But, you _are_ the one who knows him best. By that, I mean to say, you know how he thinks, his contacts..."

Watson's voice grew thoughtful, thought tinged with doubt. "You wish me to find him for you?"

"We have reason to believe he was on the Continent making his way toward Paris."

Watson nodded. "That makes sense. He has family there, and established several contacts during his absence."

"Correct."

"What do expect me to do should I find him? I assume you will have someone following me as you have for some time now."

"Kill him."

Now Watson did laugh heartily and fully. It took a moment to recover himself. "More dirty work? I'm more inclined to tell you to find a professional in this case, as I would so dearly wish to know he at least lived long enough to suffer. However, I can understand your concern with his disappearance, so I can imagine why you would want to finish this before he had a chance to do any real damage. The only question is a matter of trust. Do you trust me to carry it out, or would you rather I find him and let your man take care of Mr. Holmes?"

"Whichever you decide, Doctor, we will be watching. If he kills you, our men will take care of him. If you kill him, then all that is left is you."

"Meaning I won't survive him by much," Watson grinned to himself. "You need not remind me of this. I am well aware, and it still does not concern me."

"That's what I like about you, Dr. Watson," the younger voice spoke cheerfully, as if having just won some victory to which Watson was not privy. "You are not like the others. They tend to dance to our bidding, oblivious of how truly insignificant they are in the grand scheme of things. They always die with surprise, or begging for their lives."

Watson shook his head in amusement. "They are not me. I know my place and choose it willingly. Here, Paris, off the side of a boat, it matters little to me where and when. All that matters is Mr. Holmes receives his due."

"Such endearing loyalty!" the young man cried mockingly. "It's no wonder he didn't trust you."

"I never said I would be successful," Watson returned casually. "I only said that I would make the attempt. I'm sure you read how woefully inadequate my acting skills are by now, at least."

"As are your writing skills, I'm afraid."

Watson shrugged again. "As you say."

"So, what shall it be, gentlemen?" the elder voice to Watson's left queried others he was now sure were in attendance to this meeting.

Watson did not bother to guess their answer. He crossed his arms as he waited with more patience than he felt. He would know when the bullet penetrated his skull, anyway.

"It is agreed, then," the older voice finally spoke.

A small bag and a pouch with money landed at his feet. Watson glanced down at these objects. "I am to follow, then."

"One of our ships is currently in the harbor. Your instructions are in the bag with your new personal possessions. You will buy whatever else you need with the remaining funds," the first voice directly behind him instructed. "You will wait here for three minutes before you take up these items. Then you will leave through the same route you took reaching this place. You will not deviate, nor make any stops. A cab will be waiting for you in the street. Go directly to the harbor. A deckhand will be waiting to show you to your room. You will complete the voyage in that room. Follow the instructions exactly, and you may live long enough to see Mr. Holmes again."

"Understood."

The sound of receeding footsteps had Watson reaching for his watch. This was going to be a long few days. He cursed Holmes silently for making things so blasted difficult. He was going to very thoroughly enjoy paying the detective back for this.


	8. Chapter Seven

_**A/N: **I really am not ignoring those who have reviewed on the latest installment! I am very grateful indeed to know that you all are following. But I've been cranking out chapters so fast tonight, I've kind of been blinded here to anything else. Watson really is sick of the game; hence the reason I'm not allowed to even do anything for myself until I finish this at least. He's not a happy camper right now; so, of course, he feels the need to share that misery. _

_I feel like I'm doing a marathon writing session here, when I'm supposed to be at work. I can't even begin to express how glad I am it is slow tonight. If I'm lucky and I finish to his satisfaction, he might let me sleep tomorrow. lol _

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

It was nearing the middle of July before Watson finally caught his first true scent of Holmes. He had almost forgotten just how large Paris could be when having to search the underbelly of its streets for a single man. The fact that he had been able to find any trace of Holmes at all screamed warnings in his mind. When Holmes did not want to be found, he left virtually no traces. Watson had easily managed to locate the man's first hideout and headquarters. It would seem the organization had been correct in their concerns. Holmes was planning something.

And either he had grown careless—which Watson doubted—or he was setting up to leave a false trail for him to follow. He must have known he was being followed. He might not have been able to anticipate Watson being the one doing the following, but he knew someone had been on his back trail. The man moved constantly now. Almost as soon as Watson heard a whisper of a familiar disguise Holmes had used at some point in the past, it disappeared again.

Tonight, Watson could feel something in the air. He had already detected three people following him. There was a tension, a sort of anticipation, that made his heart pound painfully in his chest. He knew he would find Holmes tonight.

He was ready.

The gun he had managed to acquire had been sufficiently cleaned up. He had re-loaded and kept it close at hand in his right pocket. In his left pocket he concealed a hunting knife large enough to be called a small sword. For a last resort, he concealed something very special in a hidden pocket in the back of his coat.

It had been early in the evening when he'd first heard the whisper of the disguise of an elderly beggar with familiar markings on his arms. Holmes had played this role before. It had been a ridiculously simple disguise with all the injection holes in his arms providing evidence of his addiction. Not for the first time, Watson wonderd if Holmes really was out of interesting ideas for his various disguises. Though this one seemed almost too easy, he did not doubt it was Holmes, his target, he was chasing.

Prowling through the now darkened little alleys, Watson checked every face he found. There were many things Holmes could do to change his features, but he would never be able to hide those eyes from the one person who knew him best. Upon realizing exactly what Watson was doing, a shadow detached itself from the rest and attempted to creep out of the alley unseen.

"Holmes."

The voice was as flat and cold as the marble of his son's headstone. Holmes knew it would come to this eventually. Yet, he still felt so unprepared. Slumping his shoulders in defeat, he slowly turned to face the man who approached like a stalking tiger.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson. It is a little out of your way for a casual stroll, is it not?"

Watson laughed darkly. "You did not make the chase easy, I'll grant you that much. Now, how shall we settle things?"

"I had hoped we could proceed as gentlemen," Holmes said, never taking his eyes off that gun so close to his chest.

"I see no point in such a drawn-out process," Watson waved him off casually.

Holmes slumped even further as if in dejection. "I thought you'd say as much."

Before Watson had a chance to react, Holmes had dropped and spun in such a way as to make him have to leap into the air to avoid the foot aimed for his ankles. Almost as soon as his feet touched the ground, Holmes was on top of him. They wrestled for a moment in the muck of the trash-strewn alley as each attempted to gain solid purchase on the gun. Realizing the futility of combating Holmes on his own level, Watson reached for the knife in his pocket.

As if sensing the change in Watson's position, Holmes immediately gave up the fight for the gun and rolled to the side. He was not quite quick enough to avoid the blade as it sliced through the cloth and into his arm. Cursing briefly, he managed to knock the knife out of the doctor's hand to go skittering somewhere into the darkness. By now Watson had rolled the opposite direction with the gun in his good hand. Taking advantage of his friend's slower response time, Holmes fled deeper into the darkness of the adjoining alleys clutching his wounded arm.

Growling oaths of his own, Watson gave chase. He had not come this close to his target to lose him now in the alleys. With little caution, he ignored the throbbing pain in his shoulder and leg as he followed the thin figure ahead. Watson hesitated only long enough to let fly a few rounds as Holmes slowed down to take a corner. Watson grinned maliciously as Holmes was forced to cut off his pained cry abruptly. Knowing this would only further slow down the detective's pace, he resumed his pursuit around the same corner and into yet another unfamiliar alley.

His senses on high alert, fueled further by the adrenaline coursing through his system in torrents, Watson listened carefully as footsteps retreated to the end of the alley. A door closed a moment later just beyond the alley. Resuming his furious run, Watson skidded to a halt before three buildings with doors. Even with three doors to choose from, he was easily able to identify the one he wanted, as the debris had been disturbed around it. Those chasing behind him came around the corner of the alley just as the door slammed shut once more.

In the darkness of the unfamiliar building, Watson rolled to the side of the doorway instinctively. He was glad he had as a length of metal piping only narrowly missed breaking several of his ribs. Pulling the gun up to aim, he had to bite back a cry of pain as his arm exploded in white-hot agony to his elbow. The gun went flying into the darkness as he again rolled out of the way of Holmes' blows. Listening for the metal clank of the pipe on the floor, Watson accurately judged Holmes' position and kicked out. He was gratified to feel the thump of a body not far away as the pipe landed noisily in the opposite direction.

Holmes had obviously expected Watson to continue the assault from ground level as he threw his arms up defensively. He was still lying there a moment later when he realized Watson had gone a different direction. Taking advantage of this change in tactics, Holmes rolled back the other way and was fleeing up a set of stairs a moment later. Watson, not entirely surprised by this, roared furiously as he took off in pursuit once more.

~o~o~o~

Those who had gathered just outside the door heard the scuffle within, and the flight of the two opponents mere seconds later. One of them finally took the initiative to follow. The others hesitated only a moment longer listening to their instincts. Moments after their eyes adjusted, they could hear Watson's voice from the levels above.

"Come out now, Holmes, and I'll make this easy on both of us!" he declared loudly. "I have a stick of dynamite! There's no way you can get out of here before I blow this building apart!"

There was no response. Seconds later the sound of violent scuffling was heard above them. Before any of them had time to even register the sound of hissing and thunking coming down the stairs, the world around them erupted. The old building collapsed in on itself with the violence of the explosion. All that remained was the broken rubble of what had once been a building, now smoking like a funeral pyre.


	9. Interlude

**Interlude**

Mycroft Holmes dispassionately watched as the rotting remains of several body parts were rather unceremoniously sorted onto various tables of the morgue. Unable to identify the seven or eight individuals killed in the explosion, they had all been thrown together into a single box. Beside him, Lestrade appeared ready to gag but was too frozen in horror still at the idea his friend and co-worker were amongst those parts. Mycroft simply refused to believe the tale of his brother's early demise at the hands of an insane Dr. Watson. The very idea was ludicrous.

However, given the circumstances regarding their relationship in recent months combined with the testimony of his own agents, he had begun to wonder. But this was just too much. He refused to believe that Dr. Watson would go so far even in his most crazed state of mind. The morgue attendants had already vacated the room as the decaying and partially burned flesh drove even them out of its presence. Mycroft could empathize, and was understandably put out at the idea of having to burn these clothes, as the smell would cling to them.

A moment later his scowl softened as he caught sight once more of the smaller man beside him. Even as inured as the inspector was to such horrors as prowled the streets of London, he had been understandably distressed by the sights. However, when a familiar chunk of chest wall and partial shoulder were heaved out of the mess, he lost his composure entirely. Spinning away from the scene, he left the room with as much dignity as he could cling to in his present state of mind. Sighing heavily, Mycroft Holmes nodded to the attendant as the chunk of dismembered flesh was held up for his inspection. The mottled mass of scar tissue was vaguely familiar through description, though he had never seen it before himself.

The attendant rattled off some rapid French that had Mycroft nodding sadly. The remains of the scar tissue around the shoulder had been carefully cut open and inspected. Fragments of metal that could only have been from a shattered bullet had been removed. These were then presented to Mycroft in a small container. He waved them off, as he had no need to inspect them for himself. The description of the fracturing to the left clavicle went the way of the metal fragments as he told them to get on with it.

It was enough that Dr. Watson had died in such a way having done so for himself. But that still did not answer the question of proof in regards to his brother's remains. After the Reichenbach Falls fiasco, he would not believe his little brother capable of such a deception ever again. It had been Watson's forgiving nature and desperate need of the return of his friend and partner that convinced Mycroft not to leave his little brother dead in an alley somewhere himself.

His next thoughts stopped altogether as the partially crushed remains of a head were drawn from the pile. The familiar shock of black hair held his sight. Frowning slightly at the missing nose and horribly distorted features, he motioned for the attendant to see if there was enough eye tissue left to at least identify color. Unfortunately, there was not. Though the scar along the jaw down the right side spoke plainly enough. He repressed a shudder as he remembered the day his little brother had received that particular gift as a parting shot from one of his clients turned criminal. Even Watson had questioned his friend's survival that day.

Nodding his confirmation to the questions being repeated, he too turned to exit the room. Lestrade had managed to compose himself admirably in the intervening time.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade greeted stiffly.

"It's them."

Lestrade closed his eyes as if to hold back some emotion that threatened to break through his professional mask. "I will make arrangements for Dr. Watson's remains."

Mycroft did not feel the need to state the obvious. "I'll contact you with funeral arrangements," he offered instead.

For a moment, Lestrade seemed as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he nodded and turned to walk away. Mycroft could almost feel sorry for the man. He had cared about Sherlock and Dr. Watson in his own way. But he had been too close to the situation and had failed to see the warning signs when they were presented to him.

He had long known his brother had a few blind spots when it came to the doctor. He had never expected the most glaring blind spot staring Sherlock right in the face to be the one that killed him. Many had underestimated the mild-mannered polite doctor. None had seen for themselves the depth of emotion the man possessed so quietly until he chose to make them visible. And, even then, he had always done so with restraint. The man had not survived the hells of war in Afghanistan without something more than he chose to show the world. He had not survived the brutal combat all around him unscathed. Some scars could only be seen by those who chose to look for them.

Dr. Watson, in his own direct way, had declared war on his friend. Once decided, for him, there was no going back. It may have taken over a decade for the man to finally take one insult too many from the detective. But once that anger was aroused, there was no dousing its flame. Dr. Watson had carried through to the end. Mycroft could not help admiring the man in some ways. As far as he was concerned both Dr. Watson and Sherlock had paid for their follies.

As he turned his mind toward the trip back to London, he ignored the dozens of eyes following his departure. He had no doubts the two had been into something before the debacle at Scotland Yard involving the doctor's son and the murder investigations. He only hoped his little brother had left him something he could use somewhere in those rooms of his. One thing with which he could always credit the detective had been his cunning in laying out intricate and detailed plans for almost any eventuality. He had no doubt Sherlock had fled London to escape Dr. Watson, and had most likely planned even for this eventuality. He knew his little brother could never have brought himself to kill the doctor, even in self-defense. Knowing his own weakness as he had...

_Mrs. Hudson!_

Mycroft groaned openly at the thought. Scowling darkly he resumed his trek. He was just going to have to summon one of his minions for _that_ duty. He was not about to watch that formidable woman reduced to hysterical tears for the second time in his life upon hearing of her tenant's death. And for it to be both of her cherished tenants...

No, he was not doing that.

His mind had already begun to form a list of his more annoying helpers as he departed the morgue. One of them had surely committed an offense worthy of such a punishment in recent weeks.

~o~o~o~

There was little to be said of the funerals. Dr. Watson was buried in a plot beside his wife and that of his family. Mr. Holmes was buried in the same plot his brother had reserved after Reichenbach Falls. Few people attended, as word of their demise had been withheld by Mycroft Holmes. He had no intention of letting the press vultures turn on the remaining mourners.

Not that there were many.

Most seemed to have showed up more out of a lack of anything better to do. Only two or three seemed genuinely saddened by the losses.

None of them could comprehend how things have turned out so horribly.

In the sweltering heat of a lingering July afternoon, Mycroft took turns standing before each grave, lost in his own thoughts.

He never did find what he had hoped. If his little brother had left anything useful in all that mess, he and his agents had been unable to find it. And, given the neatness of the sitting room, he knew that it had previously been rifled through. Sherlock had left indicators only he or his brother would have known to look for. Anyone else going through those books and papers may have placed them back in their original positions, but not without leaving traces of that evidence.

Mycroft was not a fool. He knew that those invaders had not found what they were looking for any more than he himself had at the time. But he also knew this had been deliberately setup for him as a warning from his little brother. Mycroft knew he was in danger, and had been for some time. He only hoped at this point that Sherlock had found another way of preserving that information and seeing it got into the right hands; even if those hands were not his.

Weary of all this mess, he had ordered his agents to clear out the rooms of all of Dr. Watson's and Sherlock's personal possessions. Mrs. Hudson had raised holy hell over this, but had been unable to stop them. Something about this action had spoken more to her of the finality of the situation than anything else. The woman had retreated into those rooms, and was rarely seen now. She had not even attended the funerals. Though he feared for her state of mind, in his own small way, he feared more for her safety. Removal of all of the possessions had been as much to protect her, as it had to close this chapter of his life for himself.

He was too old for this. His brother's antics had already shaved at least a decade off his lifespan these forty something years or so. He wondered how much longer it would be before he joined his little brother in eternal rest.


	10. Chapter Eight

_**A/N: **Yep, this has been a wild ride. I was so not expecting the story to go this way. I wasn't kidding when I said Watson didn't like that part and wanted it over with, quickly. And, I had not yet answered most reviews because I was scared to death I was gonna give something away. So, for all of you that took the time to review, I cannot thank you enough for hanging in there. I promised I would not keep you hanging, so here I am once more. Now I can answer some questions._

_**Shell less snail: **Yeah, ouch was kinda my reaction, too. And I argued this entire first half of the story out and the characters insisted it could work. So, that's the way it went._

_**Riandra: **Oh yeah, it was Watson's voice. Mad with grief and rage, but still him. ;)_

_**Sir elwood: **Thank you for the wonderful review. I'm happy to know it's working and not getting too redundant. I had originally planned things out in an entirely different way for all but two of the series thus far. Spreading the pain around is more my thing. However, characters have taken over and rewritten most of it to suit their intentions. I hope not to keep you hanging for too long. However, I will request that you keep the reviews G-rated._

_**Peaceful Defender: **Thank you for setting my mind at ease in regards to errors. That writing spree yesterday left me wanting to go back and re-read a dozen times tonight since I wasn't paying much attention to anything other than finishing that first part. Don't worry, they never stopped being friends. Friends are some of the cruelest enemies one can ever have, when the situation requires. It was all part of a bigger scheme._

_To all other reviewers I might have missed, thank you very much for taking the time to let me know what you think! It helps a lot; and, as ever, please feel free to point out any mistakes so that I may correct them. _

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Holmes watched the pale, exhausted form of his sleeping friend from across the room of their little hideout in the sewers and tunnels beneath Paris. He was loath to wake the man, as he appeared to be in desperate need of some sleep. In the two days since the building had collapsed, they had done little more than sleep and talk. He had planned on keeping to the sewers for a day or two, at most. However, seeing how far Watson had deteriorated physically in recent weeks, he felt the need to give them a little more time to recover. What lay ahead in their little scheme was likely to be far more dangerous and they would both need their strength.

Seeing his friend sleeping peacefully for the first time in months without the use of alcohol was almost enough to convince him this whole thing had been a bad idea. He had feared for Watson's health and sanity during those months. He knew all too well the dangers of playing a part for too long or too well. Sigerson had to disappear into the wilderness of his mind never to be found again, for no better reason than Holmes had begun to lose his identity after so long a time. He shuddered as he recalled Watson's words that night. But the practical demonstration had effectively removed all doubts...

~o~o~o~

"Holmes, I'm telling you, we can _do _this," Watson insisted.

Holmes buried his face in his hands sitting beside the fireplace that cold March night, less than a week after the funeral. He could not help wondering if something inside his friend had been irreparably damaged by this latest loss. Watson seemed possessed by a quiet rage. He wanted to take on the organization that had—in his mind—been ultimately responsible for the death of his eldest son. It was his friend's latest, most intricate plan that left him questioning sanity more than anything. He wanted the same goal, but not when they were in such a precarious position and possessed so little information.

Not for the first time in the past week did he once again re-evaluate the man he called friend. How many times these last fourteen years had he so completely underestimated the man? How could he have not seen this? Holmes could not imagine what kind of provocation it would have taken before now to set the man on such a mad desire for justice. And the fact that Watson was willing to proceed with or without his help...

Finally Holmes straightened up and rose to head toward the table and tea Mrs. Hudson had left sitting for them on the table.

"No," he said flatly, keeping his back to his friend. He wasn't sure he could face the disappointment he knew would be there now. "This idea is madness. More to the point, you are possessed of an honest nature that leaves little room for acting abilities, as we have discussed in the past. There are other ways, and we will find them."

Watson did not respond. When Holmes finally turned back it was to find Watson staring quietly into the fire. He was not used to being the voice of reason in their partnership. It had always been Watson talking them out of dangerous and mad schemes and plots. To see the man so driven by a quiet rage disturbed him in ways he could not comprehend. Feeling the need to say more, he returned to his fireside chair.

As if sensing his friend were about to speak, Watson waved him away and rose from his seat. Holmes was not surprised to hear the front door closing minutes later. Holmes continued to sit, plotting a plan of attack. What information Watson had been given he had already shared. It was little enough, but there was more than Holmes could ever have dreamt. This organization was on a scale that made Moriarty's network of connections across Europe seem like little more than a gang of ruffians from Rotherhithe. He still did not know their true purpose, or any way to gain access from within or without that would be beneficial to them.

Holmes stared quietly into the fire, puffing away at his pipe, turning these thoughts over in his head. He was not aware of the passage of time, until the front door opened once more. He more than half expected the doctor to go straight up to his rooms. The stumbling steps on the stairs had him leaping from his chair, fearing some harm had befallen his friend. When he flung open the sitting room door, Watson had apparently been just about to do the same. He had only just enough time to register movement before Watson was collapsing into his arms.

Moments later the doctor shoved him away violently. Cursing creatively, the man told him quite clearly what he could do with that offer of assistance. Unsteadily and using various pieces of furniture for support, Watson stumbled his way to his fireside chair. Holmes, having caught the reek of alcohol from the man was caught somewhere between bemusement and irritation. This was no time for his friend to be indulging in such displays. Eyeing Watson's carefully deliberate movements as he attempted to light a cigarette with wavering hand, he settled back into his own seat.

Catching sight of the man across from him, Watson let fly some of the most colorful language Holmes had not been aware the man had ever known. Of course, with his combined military background and being a physician to some of the lowest classes of society, it made sense he had learned at least _something_ over the years. The fact that more than half of this was directed at himself did little to lessen Holmes' amusement initially. He well knew Watson drank rarely and never reached such a level of inebriation as he now witnessed. And, after all these years, Holmes knew he deserved a little of the verbal abuse he was now receiving. However, nearly an hour later as Watson began making some of those remarks more painful and deliberately hurtful, Holmes found he could take no more. Deciding it would be better to address this behavior when the man had sobered, he retreated to his room. Watson, for his part, never made it up the stairs to his own bedroom.

Not surprisingly, Holmes found him sprawled on the settee shivering as the fire had died out some hours ago. Taking pity on his poor friend, he had gotten the fire going and covered him with a comforter from his own bed. As the light began to filter through the sitting room windows Watson groaned painfully to announce his return to consciousness. Holmes watched for a few minutes as the man rolled and tried to find a way to escape the light. Remembering his friend's less than gentlemanly display of inebriation the night before, Holmes called for some coffee and toast, but could not find it in him to feel sorry for the man.

"What's wrong, Holmes? You did not appreciate my practical demonstration?"

Holmes nearly dropped his pipe when he turned back to find Watson cradling his head in his hands rubbing gently at his temples. Scowling darkly as he processed these questions, he moved around the settee to face his friend.

"I still find it hard to believe that people do this to themselves willingly on an almost daily basis," Watson commented, leaning back miserably.

"Practical demonstration?" Holmes queried, not liking where his mind was taking him.

Watson nodded carefully. When the maid knocked a moment later, he signaled Holmes to silence until the girl had left. Moving toward the table, Watson whispered into Holmes' ear as they approached.

"Quietly now," he hissed. "They must not hear."

"Watson—"

The promise of dire retribution in those green eyes had Holmes' reconsidering his next actions carefully. He silenced his next words as Watson poured himself a cup of coffee and carefully began munching on some toast, his green face telling Holmes all he needed. He waited for Watson to settle himself, before throwing the man a look that demanded an explanation. Watson again leaned close, his green eyes boring into Holmes' gray ones.

"Ms. Nessa will happily gossip with her sisters and give any information to a pretty-faced boy if he asks. James will sell any information for the right price. The only one we can trust here is Mrs. Hudson, and it is essential she believe the ruse."

Frowning darkly at these accusations against his own page boy and maid, Holmes cocked his head questioningly. "Last night was a ruse?"

Watson nodded. "I said we could make this work. It requires no acting on my part when I'm drunk and telling the truth."

Shocked, Holmes started. For several seconds he took in the earnestness in his friend's eyes. His face paled recalling some of the more cruel words that had passed his friend's lips the night before. The rush of color to his face a moment later had Watson sitting back with a satisfied smile. The silent conversation that took place then through gazes and gestures left Holmes feeling humbled once more by the man's greatly forgiving nature.

Watson continued to force himself to eat the toast provided to settle his roiling stomach and drank his coffee contentedly. Several minutes later, he rose to make his way to the warmth of the fire. Holmes joined him filling his pipe once more. Leaning close to each other to continue their whispered conversation, Holmes turned over every aspect of Watson's mad plan. It made a horrible kind of sense. He could see how such a daring plan would work in their favor, no matter which of the many directions the events would lead. The one in the greatest danger of all, in any case, would be Watson. Watson seemed more than willing to accept the risks and possible consequences if it meant giving Holmes what he needed to stop this organization.

Frustrated to silence by his friend's every counter-argument that left him no openings to dissolve the plan, Holmes sat back scowling darkly into the fire for several minutes. Watson allowed him to do so in peace, knowing this was not going to be easy for either of them. It would be most difficult for Holmes, as he would have to relinquish all control and consequences to Watson. Should this plan fail, Watson would be the one to pay the heaviest price in more permanent terms. None of this sat well with Holmes, and his friend's determination to see this through frightened him. Holmes could tell that, though Watson would not acknowledge this, he felt he had little enough to left to lose. Despite his own selfish thoughts to the contrary, Holmes could not entirely disagree. Such losses as those Watson had suffered these last four years did not leave a man in a very self-preserving frame of mind.

Leaning forward once more, Holmes forced Watson to meet his eyes as they continued their whispered conversation.

"If we go through with this, there's no going back," Holmes said fiercely. "No matter how the game plays out, we will likely never be able to return to London."

"I know," Watson replied, sorrow in every feature of his face. "I do not ask this lightly, dear friend. But you are the only one that can help me."

Watson's face hardened into a stony mask of determination as Holmes opened his mouth to protest once more. "Now that you know they are out there, you will not rest until they are caught. I_ know_ this. If you treat this as you did Moriarty, you stand little chance of success and anyone around us may be used against us. If we leave nothing and no one behind that can be used as a tool, we stand a chance of finding the source and getting the information to your brother, even if we do not survive ourselves. You were willing to walk away from your life once before to protect others. Are you willing to do so again?"

Holmes sighed as he sat back. Sadly he eyed his Watson. "Sacrificing my own life in the pursuit of justice is something I accepted as a possibility many years ago, dear friend. I will not sacrifice others."

Watson's humorless chuckle did nothing to ease Holmes' mind. "So, you're the only one allowed to play the martyr in this partnership?"

Holmes' glare could have given lessons to the snows of January nights on how to be cold.

"I apologize, that was out of line," Watson stated a moment later, somewhat chagrined. "But you must understand, Holmes, I do this willingly. If you do this alone, you may find some of the information you are seeking and even get it to your brother. If I do this alone, I will not survive and likely die accomplishing nothing. We share the same goal, and I will not be left behind this time."

That stinging reminder softened Holmes' gaze. He knew there was little chance at this point of talking his friend out of this madness. He only hoped that once things had progressed to the second stage that Lestrade might have better success. Though, given Watson's plans, there was little chance the inspector would have any more of an idea of what was truly happening than Mrs. Hudson.

"Then I shall begin making arrangements immediately. My contacts on the Continent will be the most benefit, I think. We shall start there."

Watson's entire posture relaxed in relief at these words. "Thank you, Holmes."

Holmes frowned in concern one more time. He still did not like this plan. His mind informed him time and again that it made sense, and had a greater chance of success. But the damage to his friend did not sit well. Even as Holmes considered these things, the man sitting across from him seemed to transform into something more of his usual self. His easy-going manner and relaxed attitude told Holmes much about how seriously this had weighed on Watson's mind. He found he could not deny his friend even this, as suicidal as the plans may have seemed.

Holmes could only pray that his instincts screaming warnings at him were wrong.


	11. Chapter Nine

_**A/N: **Oops! I forgot to change the rating with the Interlude chapter! ~blushes furiously~ I hadn't really intended for these to go above a T-rating, but...well, things kinda got a little more complicated than I was expecting. A huge thank you goes out to **Guest** for pointing that out in the review._

_Hopefully this chapter fills in enough blanks and answers all the major questions for the time being. If I've missed anything, feel free to ask and I'll see if I need to get it in there somewhere. I have no doubts with the insanity at work tonight, I've likely missed a few things._

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Watson's soft moan and furrowed brows alerted Holmes to the nightmares that undoubtedly plagued the man. Gently, Holmes covered his friend with a blanket and murmured soft assurances. As hoped, Watson curled deeper into the blankets and did not wake. It never ceased to amaze Holmes how very much trust the man placed in him; enough so that he could calm the man's unspoken fears so easily. He was saddened to see that the lines of grief and strain had not yet left his face. Watson had done little more than sleep in the two days since they had disappeared underground.

They had settled into their temporary quarters and Watson had tended their wounds before finally giving in to the relief they both shared that this part was over. The relief of being reunited and in relative safety left both of them limp with exhaustion. Though Holmes had insisted on the first watch, Watson had a difficult time finding sleep. It wasn't until Holmes had initiated a conversation assuring his friend that all was well between them that Watson finally relaxed into a deep sleep undisturbed by dreams.

Holmes repressed a shudder as he recalled that night. He never wanted to see Watson in such a condition again.

~o~o~o~

"Ready?" Watson asked quietly, his hands trembling with barely supressed fear.

Holmes standing at the open window nodded, his own heart racing. They would only have one chance at this. Any mistakes from here would be lethal. The two began shuffling, kicking, and throwing things to make as much noise as possible. After a few seconds Watson lit the fuse and aimed his pitch for the stairwell. The moment the fuse was lit, Holmes leapt through the window and into the open window across the alley. Watson followed a heartbeat later as the explosive roar sounded behind them.

The two rolled to their feet without hesitating as Holmes led the way down the levels of the nearly empty building. Holmes could not prevent some part of his brain noting his miscalculation in the estimate of this building's structural integrity as it shook terrifyingly all around them. He knew the other building had collapsed almost completely only moments after the explosion. He had specifically chosen that building for that purpose. It was with something akin to surprise that he opened the basement door and leapt down the stairs, never doubting Watson was behind him. Watson did not hesitate in the darkness after closing the door. He ducked through Holmes' craftily covered secret door and plunged into the tunnels behind.

Shaking with exhaustion and the after-effects of too much adrenaline, the two made their way through a maze of long-forgotten corridors Holmes had mapped out. Reaching their destination, Holmes lit a lantern to give Watson a view of their new, fully stocked temporary quarters. He nearly dropped the light in his concern a moment later as Watson slid down the wall to land in a heap. Thinking his friend injured, Holmes fell to his knees gently taking him by the shoulders. The glazed eyes and pale features twisted slowly upward back at him in the parody of a smile.

"I'm alright, Holmes. Just a little...shaken. That's all," Watson assured him, warmly. "Give me a moment."

Holmes' dark brows furrowed further in concern at the weakness in that voice, but he did as Watson requested and backed off. Retrieving the medical items Watson had instructed him to stock and bowl of water and cloths, he returned to his friend.

"Better?"

Watson nodded, eyeing Holmes' arm just above the elbow where he had stabbed the man during their mêlée. "Let me see that arm."

Holmes started to wave off his concerns, but the look in those green eyes would brook no argument. More to the point, he felt Watson needed this, needed something to focus on beyond the events of the night. His gray eyes looking over his friend closely for signs of his own, concealed injuries, he let Watson clean and bandage the shallow cut.

"Holmes, so help me, if you don't stop squirming like an impatient child, I'll dose you with—"

Watson never even had the chance to finish whatever he was about to say as Holmes burst into hearty laughter. Now _that _was more like his Watson! It was so good to hear his Watson once more!

The sudden release of tension had Watson chuckling. As he tied off the bandage that chuckling became outright laughter. For several minutes the two laughed in a way that had them unable to face one another without breaking into hysterics all over again. Though there was something of a desperate edge to that laughter, they both felt the better for it. Finally regaining control more out of exhaustion than any loss of humor, they sat back to enjoy a smoke and some of Holmes' hastily prepared tea.

"We really did it," Watson finally said, something of wonder in his expression.

Holmes nodded sagely. "But that was only the beginning. Now we wait. If Mycroft begins to tear the city apart, we will know for certain it did not work as we had hoped."

Watson chuckled again. "Not looking forward to that, I take it."

Holmes grimaced. "Not particularly, no."

"So what_ is _next?"

Eyeing Watson closely, Holmes could not help the wicked grin that graced his features. His eyes took on a mischievous gleam as he leaned forward in earnestness. "Disguises."

Watson_ so_ did not like the sound of that, despite having expected as much. Dropping that line of questioning, he turned his attention to his surroundings for the first time. The room was well stocked with plenty of well-preserved food. Two pallets sat side-by-side near one corner with something resembling a stove meant for minor food preparation. Holmes pointed toward an adjoining room with drains in the floors and a rigged water pipe setup that made Watson eyes widen with amazement. He found it hard to believe Holmes had set all of this up by himself along with the other aspects of the plans they'd left behind in the collapsed building.

Holmes smiled with some pride at his achievements. He had seriously doubted that they could successfully complete even this much. Never doubting Watson's determination in all of this, he had only left the dynamite and the note with extreme reluctance. However, Watson had performed admirably, and he had been prepared for that eventuality. He knew now he should never have doubted his Watson. The next phase of their plan would be much more difficult.

As they settled back onto one of the pallets to further their discussion on future plans, Holmes caught sight of his friend stifling yawns from time to time.

"You should rest. I can take first watch. We may not be entirely alone down here, as I have seen in the past few days."

Watson's next words turned into a yawn wide enough to make his jaw ache. Knowing he would be next to useless without some rest, he trusted to Holmes' stamina and alertness to keep them safe. After lying for a few minutes in silence, Watson found his mind turning over many things of the last few months. His first real doubts began to take hold as he shifted his position on the surprisingly comfortable pallet nearly an hour later.

"Alright there, old chap?" Holmes queried gently, wondering if his friend was still suffering some from their fight and flight.

Watson grunted something in reply, otherwise brushing off the concern. As Holmes watched, the man continued to shift on the pallet restlessly as if in response to his various unpleasant thoughts. This had not been unexpected. Holmes knew that once Watson's focus for the tasks at hand was diminished, his more sensitive nature would come to the fore. His gaze softened sadly as he wondered how many sleepless nights his friend had spent alone in those miserable rooms he had taken while they played out their roles. Bereft of his beloved violin, Holmes felt at a loss to help his suffering friend. He knew Watson would not confront these things on his own, and there seemed nothing he could do so soothe those concerns.

As his friend continued to toss and turn alternating between frowns, pinched expressions, and something akin to sorrow, Holmes could take no more. Though this whole plan thus far had been of Watson's creation, he refused to sit by and watch the man torment himself. He wracked his brain for a moment trying to find something to distract his friend when the solution presented itself quite neatly. Barely restraining a chuckle, he shifted on his own pallet to better see his friend in the dim light.

"As you seem to have no intention of actually sleeping," he started, keeping his voice casual, "perhaps you can tell me exactly where it was you picked up that shockingly vulgar reference you used in the Dancing Duck that night."

He had no need to explain the night to which he was referring. For them, there was only the one night that mattered. Though he had been deliberately keeping his voice light, he watched Watson closely for a reaction. His nearly sighed with relief and relaxed the tension that had been creeping into his posture as his friend's back shook with silent laughter beneath the blankets.

"Australia," he finally answered, rolling over to face Holmes with a grin. "That one is almost as old as I am at this point."

Holmes nodded, grinning himself. "That was rather nicely delivered. Any others I've missed you would care to share?"

The discussion was one they had not had since their early days when both were still learning much from one another. Holmes was surprised at some of the incredible variety of vile language and foul oaths his friend had been privy to over the years. Though, as a doctor, it really did make sense. Even the most refined gentleman in enough pain was liable to let something slip. On more than one occasion Holmes saw a troubled expression cross his friend's face as the memories of where he and used some of these and on whom continued to trouble his conscience. Holmes easily prevented any apologies by smoothly complimenting his friend on those public displays and even managed to garner an embarrassed flush or two. Since they had not planned these encounters with any great detail, most of the shock and hurt feelings had been genuine.

This conversation's mixed humor and chagrin seemed to ease Watson's discomfort and concern. Holmes smiled warmly when Watson fell to silence, letting his friend know he held to their original agreement that nothing permanent be taken from those conflicts. When Watson did at last meet his gaze, he shared a grateful smile of his own just before a yawn nearly split his face in two. Turning down the wick of the lamp, Holmes again waited for his friend to settle. The soft snores of deep, dreamless sleep set his own mind at ease. Perhaps his friend would feel some remorse for all of this in the days to come, but for tonight, Holmes would ensure he got the rest he had been so desperately needing.


	12. Chapter Ten

_**A/N: **Well, given the fact that no one has PM'd or reviewed asking me all the questions I've likely missed, I'm basically going to push forward. Life has thrown me a couple of curve balls in the last few days, so I'm still aiming for a chapter a day, but I'm not making promises for the moment. Thank you in advance for all your patience. _

_Here is where we start getting more deeply involved in the heart of the story. This may be a familiar theme, and I am taking some liberties with the historical timelines. I'm keeping it relatively vague for now, as I will likely need to do more research before coming back to clean these up later. If I make a glaring mistake, please point it out and I will be happy to correct._

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Watson scowled fiercely. Holmes was pleased to see it did not have quite the same effect it had since his friend no longer possessed a mustache to bristle at him. The solid black hair that now adorned his friend's head combined with the clean-shaven face did more than Holmes could have hoped to alter Watson's appearance. He wondered at his own now shockingly blond, wild hair and beginnings of an equally bleached beard.

"You cannot deny that you enjoyed that," Watson stated icily beyond the the scowl.

Holmes smiled widely, his gray eyes twinkling in mischievous glee. "And you did not?" he asked a little too innocently.

Watson turned his scowl back toward the train's window. The thickly forested countryside that fairly flew by them on their trip toward Moscow apparently did little to soothe Watson's ruffled feathers. Holmes only barely managed to contain his laughter as the man continued to pout.

"Just remember, old chap, _I_ chose our next travelling companions," Watson finally said darkly, watching Holmes' reflection in the window.

Unable to contain his amusement, Holmes fell to laughing. The threat, though he knew Watson had meant it in all seriousness, was one he was willing to suffer. He found himself doubled up on the seat bench moment's later as Watson's face reddened only further. Summoning his rather tattered dignity, Watson continued to ignore his friend...and his own flaming red face.

After spending the better part of two weeks in their little underground hideout in Paris, Holmes was fairly confident that his brother had believed them dead. Had he not, Holmes knew without a doubt the man would have had his countless minions tearing apart the city quietly looking for them. Likely as not, it would only be to so he could enjoy the pleasure of murdering his little brother himself this time.

During these two weeks Holmes had been surprised at how easy it was to convince the doctor to change his appearance. It almost worried him that his friend had been so willing. However, there was no denying that after dying his hair black with various chemical and herbal components and removing the mustache, he cut a fine figure of a man some years younger than the Dr. Watson of London. For himself, Sherlock Holmes transformed into an older gentleman with shockingly blond and white hair and nearing a full beard. The combination of chemicals and unaccustomed facial hair had had Watson grinning in amusement at his friend's discomfort for several days as he twitched his hands in and effort not to scratch.

These were disguises that needed almost daily maintenance, but was typically easily accomplished. However, Holmes knew it would not be enough. After he was confident enough in their physical appearances, they relocated to a hotel in the city proper. He had long since withdrawn all the funds he could obtain from his own bank accounts and kept it stashed in various places throughout many European countries. His distribution of the funds ensured neither he nor Watson would be without resources even should they be separated.

The final touch to their disguises and escape plan for leaving Paris Holmes had acquired nearly at the last minute. It was this that now had his friend suffering a case of acute embarrassment. Nearing the end of their week in the hotel rooms, Holmes had spent enough time prowling the streets and various establishments for two women to pose as their wives. These poor women had little other than their timeless profession and were more than willing to leave behind their lives for the money he offered. The one he chose for himself was a flame-haired woman whose beauty had only matured with time. Though still younger than himself, she was a quiet and surprisingly refined woman who played the part well.

For Watson he had chosen a younger woman with dreams of a life beyond her means. She was overjoyed at the idea of seeing something of the world and the clothes Holmes had provided made her feel special. Though this much pleased Holmes, it was her obvious and blatant attraction to his friend that amused him endlessly. Aside from her background and the part she knew she was playing, the moment she laid eyes on the dark-haired man, she wanted him for her own. And, she would not take no for an answer.

Her hands had roamed freely about Watson's person at any time public or private. To her young mind, the more public the better. The more she managed to accomplish without being seen by other passengers, the more daring she became. Nothing Watson could say or do would deter the woman. Daily he had grown more discomfited and had begun taking more and more extreme measures to avoid his "wife". As the days rolled by, Holmes found himself stifling laughter on numerous occasions as the woman's unseen attacks had his friend walking around with an almost sun-burned appearing face.

Finally, at their last stop, Holmes took pity on the poor man. Just before reaching the border of Russia, he had paid the women the rest of their money and bid them farewell. Watson had made a hasty retreat onto the train, his back was rigid as a board as he strained to keep his pace to something less than a run. He only just managed to successfully avoid any parting maneuvers from the woman. Holmes had been forced to take a moment to compose himself before joining Watson in the cabin. Having had very little time to themselves this entire trip, he only now was able to take in the full effect of the woman's "charms" upon his friend.

"Are you quite finished?" Watson asked several minutes later, still red-faced.

Holmes finally composed himself once more. He was almost sorry that Watson could not find the humor in the situation himself. What lay ahead of them were likely to be many dark and dangerous days. While conducting his dozens of petty investigations from within London, Holmes had also divided his time to devote some small amount of resources to the planning of their disappearances. But there had been an even smaller, less noticeable amount of time and a great deal of money involved in the acquiring of information on this shadowy organization that seemed to have ties from within the highest levels of the British government all the way into Japan. They had spies and agents everywhere. Though Holmes could not directly associate any of the current political unrest in any of these countries to the organization directly, he no longer had any doubts they had played their parts.

There were many rumors in many countries across Europe and Asia for him to use as a starting point for deeper investigations. As far as he could determine, there was a singular group of individuals who coordinated every plot, every crime, and every political maneuver to some small extent. The idea of hampering their effects through taking out the lower ranks within the governments, military systems, and even lower-class minions was one even Holmes could not hope to achieve. It would require the coordination and cooperation of every government he now knew to be affected. Their only hopes of dissolving this organization lay in the destruction of its leaders.

There was still no name they could put to the group, but the whispers Holmes had heard indicated they had been building power and influence for nearly two hundred years. They had originated in France following the French Revolution. They had gained followers quickly throughout Europe and some Asian countries. That wealth had gained them only more power and influence. Despite their far-reaching influence, they had yet to make any decisive moves that would reveal their true purposes. Though Holmes had dug far and deeply, he only knew for certain this cloak of secrecy would not last much longer. Whatever they had been planning, whatever they were working towards, would soon be revealed. He only hoped he could stop them, first.

The latest and most often whispered rumors had lead them on a flight through Germany and into Russia. Though most were not aware of any specific dates, it was known that a coronation was being planned for Nicholas II. Holmes had already known of the plans before they were even announced. In the waning weeks of summer, he had learned all he needed to get his start in Moscow.

As Tsesarevich, Nicholas had proven himself to be headstrong, stubborn, and determined to have his own way. It would seem the man had many grand plans for the future of Russia. After the affair with Mathilde Kschessinska and later the announcement of his engagement to Alix of Hesse only the previous year, he had proven himself capable of ignoring even the voices of his people. His knowledge as a ruler seemed limited. He would, therefore, be easily influenced by whispers from the right people. He had even had the experience of viewing the British governmental system in action and had blatantly turned his back on such a notion. While this, in itself, was not unusual, there were a number of other influences around the man that Holmes could detect from his discreet inquiries. He sensed there was more than a disregard for governmental systems. Something much more sinister was growing in their societal ranks, and Holmes hoped to uncover it while furthering his own goals to locate the heads of this organization.

In Holmes' mind, he fit the profile perfectly for a person of power to be easily manipulated into the machinations of this organization. The strength and repetitiveness of the whispers regarding his coronation were enough of a lead to know there might be something of substance they could find in Moscow at least. As a starting point, it would have to do for now. In their disguises, there was still a chance that they would be recognized. Holmes could only hope that at this point they believed as did his brother and everyone else they had known intimately in London. Even an organization such as theirs would likely not be on the lookout for two dead men so far from home. But the warnings still nagging Holmes in the back of his mind haunted him.

Holmes had meticulously plotted out how the bodies would be used to match the descriptions needed for proof of identity. He could not trust any official force or government connection he had ever made. But others of the medical field and those associations he had formed with people of less pleasant, but necessary jobs had accomplished miracles for him. The hardest part had been finding a body with a similar build and a mass of scar tissue on the shoulder. It was the purest luck that much had been managed. Mangling the tissue by having someone cut into it to "find" fragment of metal they could pass off as bullet shards to help in the identification had perfected the scenario. A forged report on the healed bones found within that shoulder would likely never be verified. Holmes had known that this would be enough even for his brother. For his own part, he had managed to acquire a head that was so similar as to unsettle him deeply. The poor wretch had died of a disease that left few visible marks, but was not unknown in Holmes' own blood lines.

Holmes shuddered visibly. Across the compartment, Watson eyed him critically for a moment. Holmes twitched a smile reassuringly in his friend's direction before returning to his own thoughts.

The board was set, and the pieces were moving. Most had gone according to plan, for the most part. Whatever complications Watson had encountered, he had kept to himself. Though it did not sit well with Holmes, he knew his friend was only trying to spare him any guilt he might have felt for his part in all of this. He watched Watson from across the compartment for a few moments. The man really _had_ developed quite an extraordinary talent for disguising his thoughts that had once shown so plainly upon his face. He had no doubts his friend's mind was following much the same processes as his own, even if more slowly.

This whole plan had been mostly of Watson's creation. It had initially surprised Holmes that his friend would dare to conceive of such a plan. Now, for all he had seen and learned, Watson had proven himself a very different man when engaged in what he felt was a combat more of Holmes' territory. Nonetheless, he was a fierce opponent, no matter which way he took to a battle. He had never doubted Holmes would go after this organization, and he was right. He had made his intentions clear in that he was not going to be left out or left behind this time. For him, it was more personal in a way Holmes did not entirely comprehend. But once his anger had been aroused, Watson had declared his own quiet war and would see it through to whatever end.

Previous humor lost, Holmes checked a sigh as he turned his attention back to the countryside rolling swiftly past them. For all they had successfully accomplished thus far, he could not shake the lingering doubts that plagued his mind.


	13. Chapter Eleven

_**A/N: **Sorry for the delay. Life has upgraded from curve balls to steam rollers. There may be more delay here than anticipated and I'm sorry. Don't worry, I will finish this before the end of the month. There just might be some...distractions...along the way. _

_**Riandra **and **Shell less snail: **Thank you so very much for the awesome reviews. Your timing was more perfect than you know._

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Over the years Holmes had picked up enough of several European languages to function with relative ease in a number of societies and countries. Watson had picked up his fair share in his early days of travel as well. Unfortunately, between the two of them, Russian was not one of those languages. From the moment they arrived in Moscow, Holmes had made a point of locating a younger boy not unlike one of his own Irregulars that would serve as an interpreter and teacher. While they had no specific time table for their inquiries or investigation, Holmes had hoped to uncover at least some leads before winter had truly set in. To accomplish this, either he or Watson, or both, would have to learn.

As the weeks rolled past in a blur of activities throughout the highest and lowest levels of Moscow society, Holmes had assumed a number or roles in his forays. By mid-September all he had managed to learn was that Germany and France were both competing for Russia's favor. It would seem many of the Nicholas' grand designs were in the direction of Asia rather than to the west. The growing tensions between the British Empire and Germany were slowly, but steadily escalating. None of this was really all that new to Holmes. The constant maneuverings and political tensions were commonplace. There seemed no indication of anything more sinister than misguided intentions of glory and conquest.

His frustration mounting, Holmes often turned to Watson who seemed little more than an infrequent presence and reassuring companion. While Holmes had been exploring the city high and low and assuming positions ranging anything from minor criminal to butler, Watson had spent his time perusing more historical references. Despite all of Holmes' arguments, Watson was certain there was more to this than they knew and evidence could be found through research of events in recent history.

Both were correct, in their own ways. Holmes found nothing more than the same whispered rumors of some of these political and financial maneuverings being too seamlessly orchestrated to be anything less than the work of a coordinated group. Watson found that such oddities through the recent history of numerous European countries were all seemingly tied to the same familial names, should anyone ever care to look. And, yet, both felt themselves growing more frustrated with this nearly useless information.

They had split up after arriving in Moscow so as to draw less attention. Most of their communications were now through the boy that had been more than willing to help for a little extra coin. The sheer amount of poverty seen even here in the city was staggering. Every so often they would make quiet arrangements to meet here and there throughout the city, sometimes renting rooms for the night so they could take time sharing their knowledge. Holmes' frustration was only equaled by the sense that whatever they were missing was a dire threat to them. The shadow of threat that had clung to him from the beginning had only grown through the weeks. As late September began to roll around, he had taken to moving his locations more frequently and directed Watson to do the same.

Watson had begun to grow weary of Holmes' constant paranoia. He wondered if this was how his friend had lived while on the run those three years. If so, he felt that perhaps his initial anger at Holmes' "extended vacation" being a bit too harsh. Nevertheless, he complied, if for no other reason than it kept Holmes happy. He continued his research via various places and discreet inquiries wondering if he had just been wasting their time. But he did not have the talents his friend possessed, and he disliked the idea of being idle while his friend gathered information through his own methods.

Putting aside his impatience once again, Watson readied himself for another day spent in research. Briefly his mind turned to thoughts of their old sitting room on Baker Street and some of Mrs. Hudson's finest tea.

~o~o~o~

Holmes was right.

After a particularly long day posing as a servant in a noble house, Holmes returned to his room weary and wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a pipe. The note he found under the door, however, left him cursing silently. Watson's timing could have been better. However, if his friend had found something urgent enough to arrange for an early meeting...

Wearily, Holmes changed into warmer clothes and set out to meet his friend. Already late into the night, he forced himself to ignore the cold. It seemed that no fire outside of his old sitting room would ever warm him again. Sometimes he wondered how a place could always be so cold and yet have all the markings of summer or autumn when it felt like winter to him already without the snow. Keeping his head ducked low into his muffler, he failed to hear the stealthy steps that approached him from behind as he turned down a nearby alley.

His last conscious thought was of Watson.

~o~o~o~

As his research often required assistance from a variety of people, Watson's work had not gone unnoticed either. For almost two days he had thought Holmes' paranoia was simply rubbing off on him. Either that, or his longing for the comforts of his room at Baker Street was wearing him down. Weeks ago he'd begun to wonder how Holmes had managed it for three years. Though, at the time, Holmes was on the run and never in one place for very long. Perhaps it was just the atmosphere of the city itself weighing on him. He'd already given in to his frustrations on a couple of occasions recently and started to walk away admitting defeat. After short breaks, he had once again returned. Some part of him was certain that these familial ties he had seen was the missing link they needed to find the source.

But as he strolled back toward his rooms with an exaggeratedly casual air, he knew he was being followed. Though he had noticed the eyes on him several times in the last few weeks, it wasn't until two days ago that he began to make the connection. It was as if someone were guiding him to various locations for his searches. Ready and willing helpers seemed to appear at almost the same time.

He was being watched.

As the days rolled past and he engrossed himself further, some part of his mind had absorbed the fact that the items he was searching seemed to appear just when he needed them. Or, in some cases, a person working nearby would clear their throat or shuffle paper to gain his attention subtly before setting aside and walking away from exactly what he was needing. He had played along this last two days wondering who they were and where they were leading him. Now he was certain he'd been identified. It had been an act of the greatest willpower these last several weeks to ignore the calling of his profession as time and time again he met with someone in need. He had maintained the image of a young scholar and kept up his disguise. Other than suddenly appearing with another "wife" there was little more he could have done to follow Holmes' instructions. He could only guess that it was the research itself that had identified him somehow. And now it may be too late to cover his tracks.

He was being followed.

Though he did not know the area as well as he would have liked, there was no doubt that in the three days since he'd taken these rooms, it had been far too often vaguely familiar faces would be seen around his street. Some of those faces he thought he might recognize as various other researchers and workers from the libraries and museums. Tonight the stealthy footsteps left him no doubts. In his mind, they already knew where he was staying; so the shadow he'd acquired upon leaving the museum was deliberate. They wanted him to know he was being followed. Turning his thoughts to the surrounding areas, he wondered how far he would get before they would confront him directly.

He _wanted_ a confrontation.

Watson was tired of feeling idle, though he knew Holmes was doing more than his share of the hunting. But weeks and weeks of nothing more than useless research had worn on him. Holmes had warned him that it could be months, or even years before they found any clue to the organization's heads. Given the miracles he had seen his friend perform in the past when on a hunt, he didn't want to believe it could take so long. Seeing this as an opportunity, Watson opted for a direct path back to his own rooms rather than attempting to evade his shadow. Maintaining his course, he led the follower right to his door. Readying his gun with his unseen hand buried in his coat pocket, he moved as if to unlock the door with the other.

"Dr. Watson, if I may have a word," an older, well-dressed man approached.

Watson stiffened, but straightened from his partially bent position at the door and turned, keeping the gun concealed. He'd been addressed in heavily accented English. There was no use in pretending not to understand. Warily, he eyed the man who casually motioned with his cane toward the door as if asking permission to join him within. Watson considered this, but the tiniest sound of shuffling from within had him changing his mind a moment later.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," he finally asked, ignoring the key in the still locked door.

"You need not know who I am. All you have need to know is that we do not take kindly to deception, Dr. Watson. Shall we speak more privately?"

Though the man's face never wavered from a pleasant smile, as if greeting an old friend, the dark glint in the eyes told Watson this was anything but a friendly chat. They knew who he was. They knew how he'd arrived there. They knew what he was wanting.

They knew they had him.

Sighing heavily as if in defeat, Watson reached toward the key still in the door. As the man stepped closer anticipating following him, Watson swung with his right arm backhanding the man solidly. The perfect strike left the man staggering into the corridor wall. Before he had a chance to recover, Watson followed up with the butt of the gun to the man's head. The sound of pounding on the door from within his room confirmed his earlier suspicion. As added insurance, he raised his booted foot to kick and bend the key in the lock before turning to escape out into the night.


	14. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve **

Watson knew it wasn't safe to stay the moment he realized Holmes was not in his rooms. There was no way to tell when he would reappear. He could only hope his friend had not yet been discovered through his blundering. Slipping a note under the door, Watson quickly exited the same back door he had used to sneak in. Keeping his head and face covered as best he could to avoid identification, he stuck to the shadows as he approached the meeting place. Though he might have several hours to wait, there was little more he could do. Only by staying hidden and far away from his previous haunts could he hope to avoid capture until Holmes could at least be alerted. He hadn't dared to leave that much in the message.

As midnight came and went, Watson shivered quietly in his little corner. There had still been no sign of Holmes. He began to fear the man had already been captured. But, per their agreement, he would wait until at least dawn before going to their first in a series backup plans and hideouts. The very idea burned in his consciousness. Though Holmes' plan had made sense, he could not bear the idea of leaving the man behind without at least knowing his condition. He squashed that pessimistic voice in the back of his mind that screamed his friend was already captured or dead. The time spent waiting chafed, making him fidget less with cold and more with anticipatory fear. He summoned all his willpower just to keep from going by and checking Holmes' rooms once more.

As the first bluish hints of false dawn began to light the eastern skies, Watson's insides were no longer knotted with fear. He would go to their backup location and wait, per Holmes' instruction. But this time, he would not wait long. Holmes' plans for escaping Moscow be damned. Watson had his own plans for such an eventuality. He would not leave Holmes behind.

~o~o~o~

Holmes first thoughts upon reacquainting himself with consciousness revolved around Watson. He dearly hoped his friend had not also been caught. As he gradually took in his surroundings through the hood he now wore, he listened closely. There seemed to be little noise in the immediate vicinity, save for the sounds of many voices nearby raised to a pitch that could only be from heated arguments. He could not make out what they were saying, though there seemed to be several languages involved.

Maintaining the appearance of unconsciousness, he carefully tested his bonds. His hands were tied securely behind him around the back of a simple, wooden chair. His legs were bound the to supports of the chair at the ankles, ensuring he would not be able to shift the chair short of throwing himself to the ground with it. Not seeing how this would gain him any advantage, he opted for continuing his other observations.

The fog of disorientation lifted somewhat, as Holmes' mind swiftly processed more information in that few seconds than most could in hours. He was aware that this was some sort of basement or other stone structure as the walls fairly radiated cold and the sounds around him had a different echo. The scent of tobacco lay heavy about the hood making him frown in disappointment at the lack of his own pipe for some two days now. The bindings around his wrists were tight, but not uncomfortably so. Therefore he was able to feel enough with his dexterous, long fingers to know it was a smoothly woven, high quality rope indeed. He had not been gagged, so they must be intending to talk.

_Or they are not concerned overmuch who will hear me scream, _a grimly pessimistic voice somewhere in the depths of his consciousness spoke bluntly.

His mind having taken in all it could of his present circumstances and condition, he quickly pushed away the throbbing ache from the back of his head. He was alone in the room. Though this did not necessarily mean that Watson had not been captured, it did at least give him some hope his friend had been more successful in avoiding notice. When he failed to make their meeting, he knew Watson would at least follow through their plans to the backup location. Perhaps there he would be safe enough for a time.

Holmes did not want to think what it would do to his friend when he failed to arrive at the backup location in time.

Grimly, Holmes gave up his ruse and raised his head. He maintained his silence. It was only a matter of time before those voices would eventually make their way in here to chat. Maybe then he could learn something that would be of use to him. Though, he doubted he would long outlive the obtaining of such knowledge. Likely as not, they were simply going to interrogate him and then finish what Watson was supposed to have accomplished in Paris.

Never one to remain idle for long, Holmes carefully probed his cuffs. Of course, they had been thorough in their search. He let a part of his mind drift back over his activities of recent weeks in an attempt to identify where he gone wrong. Something he had said or done must have caught the eye of the wrong person. Though he could find no flaws within his performance, he knew there had to be one. With little else to occupy his mind, he set to attempting to identify the distant, muffled voices beyond the room. None sounded even vaguely familiar. Though he thought he could make out at least six different languages he knew and some he had never heard before. It was a strange combination. If there were interpreters being used, he could not tell beyond the shouting.

At last silence descended in the other room. For several minutes Holmes strained to hear beyond the pounding of his heartbeat in his throbbing skull. He did not have long to wait. The sound of a solid wooden door opening creaked and then slammed shut again a moment later after several sets of feet filed into the room to form something of a semi-circle before him.

"Should I say good evening or good morning, in this instance?" Holmes tested them in English giving every indication of boredom.

"Morning would be closer to the truth, if you must know, Mr. Holmes," a vaguely familiar voice said some four feet directly in front of him.

It was as he'd feared. They knew his true identity. Their ruse had only likely worked in the most obvious of terms. Anyone digging deeper into the ruins left behind and the surrounding areas had likely found what they were looking for in Paris. There had been certain coded signals left behind for only his most trusted accomplices in the matter. Those were something even his brother and Watson had not been aware of at the time. Someone must have betrayed them, though he had done all he could to ensure they were not followed to Moscow. Reigning in his growing concern for his friend, he waited patiently for their next move.

"I assume you have no intention of revealing yourselves to me, so let us dispense with the pleasantries of greeting," Holmes stated, hoping to keep them off balance. "You've wasted your time in keeping me alive, as you must know I'll give you nothing. However, I may gain quite a bit in return."

Beneath the hood, they could not see the predatory smile he flashed.

"You mistake our intentions, sir," the obviously English-bred spokesman said, unable to keep the offended tone in check. "If we had wanted you dead, you and Dr. Watson would not have survived the first week."

Not perturbed by this information in the least, Holmes pressed on. His instincts told him this person was familiar, or should be. Hoping to throw him off balance, he addressed the man more directly. "As you well know, Your Grace, we are hunted. What words can you offer to convince me you are not among those who wish us dead?"

"I offer you the life of your friend and partner, Dr. John Watson," another voice heavily accented with a German dialect, spoke up.

Holmes hesitated, his hopes of Watson's freedom shattering. He recovered himself by chuckling darkly. "The man who attempted to murder me? He's dead. The building collapsed."

"He is as dead as you are, of course," a voice accented in French replied with some amusement. "And you both have no fear of remaining in that state, so long as you help us."

Holmes wracked his brain trying to put a name to that familiar voice. The tactics he had used thus far in an attempt to throw them off balance, had failed. But there was something else his brain latched on to even more strongly.

"You don't know where he is."

"We had hoped to catch you both together, but he was approached by another outside his rooms. We believe he is associated with those you have both been hunting. You still hunt, though you still do not know the face of your enemy," the original speaker added.

Though his instincts screamed against trusting anyone, especially now, he could not deny the idea that there was something different here. It was true that if they wanted him dead he would be already. However, it seemed as if they were more interested in Watson now than himself. This set alarms ringing in his mind. If their intentions were benevolent, they could give him the task they obviously had in mind with no need to involve Watson.

"And you do?" he queried.

"We have known of them for a long time, just as we know of your efforts to remove Professor Moriarty from the criminal world. You did not accomplish that alone, nor will you accomplish _this_ without our help. You will accomplish nothing, really, unless we wish it," the German representative stated ominously.

"You are a tool we have used in the past to uncover and even resolve some minor issues. However, we have a greater need now than ever," the first man spoke once more. "If you are willing to listen, you may yet save many lives worth far more than your own."

Holmes bristled visibly at these insults. The idea that he had been used...

_"You think you know what games you play, Sherlock? You cannot begin to imagine the intricacies of the plots and counter-plots that take place all around you as you blunder your way through! People are just pieces on a board, and you are nothing more than a pawn. The next time you decide to—"_

Holmes' memories of these words from his brother following one high-profile investigation some years ago hit him with all the force of a club to the head. Now he could guess, at least to some small extent, how much more his brother knew. It was not the first time he had felt manipulated into an investigation, and he had been correct then. Though he never could tie the strings firmly to his brother, there had been cases that he could not deny had the feel of his brother's cunning all over them.

Apparently his captors could practically hear the wheels turning as his mind spun through these recollections and processes. He could recall on several occasions questioning Mycroft as to the right or wrong of a situation. He remembered the accusations of arrogance as his elder brother had so casually brushed away those concerns as nothing more than a perception...a perception that could change. For him, there was no definitive form of good or evil. There simply was the end result. The challenge of the game was just a bonus. Individual people were nothing more than gambling pieces, often sacrificed for the greater good. Though Holmes could, in some ways, understand his brother's lofty position giving him such a coldly calculating perspective, Holmes refused to accept it. He had always taken the stance that the human factors involved could make a greater difference in the world than an army, when properly motivated.

His mind raced for several seconds as many pieces of many things fell into place across the decades of his career.

"I understand."

"I don't think you do, Mr. Holmes," a new voice heavily accent in something that sounded African spoke up.

"I understand you have used me freely. That much I accept. But what of Dr. Watson? You—"

"Promised nothing," the German representative cut in, irritably. "He is alive, that much we know. He escaped. Though, under the circumstances that is not well for him. They will find him, Mr. Holmes. We do not offer protection. What we offer is a chance to fight back. That_ is_ what he wanted, isn't it?"

Holmes' lips tightened in cold fury. Whether he understood the true scope of their situation or not, he had no intention of revealing their plans. The fact that these people _knew_ meant Watson was in very real danger. Anyone outside their personal sphere would never have known it was Watson that had instigated this. Even most within that sphere of influence would assume such a wildly daring plot would have been entirely of Holmes' devising.

"We have a proposal, if you are willing to listen," spoke yet another voice only lightly accented in something Holmes could not identify.

"It is not as if I have a choice."

"You do, provided you are willing to accept the consequences. You will walk out of here alive, either way, Mr. Holmes. How long you live after will be based entirely upon your actions. We will have no further use for you, at present. But, we do not intend to kill you, as you have proven a useful pawn in the past, and may be so again," the English-bred spokesman stated quite simply. "Being dead does have its advantages, does it not?"

Before Holmes could answer, another lightly accented voice spoke. "There is little time, Mr. Holmes. You will decide now. You can accept the task we are needing you to fulfill and we will offer what aid we can without further drawing attention to ourselves. You may yet survive the encounter and save the lives of many, your brother included. Or, you can walk out that door and you and Dr. Watson are on your own."


	15. Chapter Thirteen

_**A/N: **Someone asked for action? Remember what I said about making Watson mad? Yeah, he's not one to anger easily. I have learned there are a few ways to accomplish this, however. Would you like to guess one of them? lol_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Watson trudged his way across the city to their first of several little hideouts. There was a pre-arranged order in which they were to be checked should either one of them have a reason to disappear. After making a few quick stops, Watson now entered the little shack of a building hidden well behind some workshops. It was only a little before noon now, it could be several hours before Holmes would check this one. The owner was well paid to keep silent and keep the place untouched. The boxes and all their supplies appeared untouched at a first glance. However, the little roll of paper with still-fresh blood leaving a trail across the top of one crate filled the doctor with wordless dread where only moments before there had been some sense of security and hope that Holmes might yet find him.

Forcing his fear to the back of his mind, Watson fingered the gun with one hand as he closed the door. Certain he was now alone, he kept the gun ready as he approached the roll of paper. His instincts screamed warnings at him as he approached the crate with the note. Carefully he unrolled it with one hand, surprised at how steady that hand was as it moved. With the pounding of his heart in his chest, he felt he should be trembling all over. He could no longer tell if it would be from fear or rage. Both warred for control as he already knew what he would find within that roll. As expected, the bloody stump of a recently severed finger rolled out of the paper. Watson had no need to read the message, though his mind seemed to absorb in anyway.

They had Holmes.

For several minutes, Watson stared blindly. He no longer saw the room, or the crates, or the paper with its instructions on what he needed to do to keep his friend alive. His only vision was that of his friend now missing a finger, and likely not treated properly and bleeding profusely. His face was white with rage in stark contrast to the black hair. Within him a calm had settled that he had not known since his earliest days in some of the bloodiest combats the British Army had ever known. His green eyes flashed dangerously speaking more than that pale, implacable expression upon his features could ever hope to convey.

Those who had taken Holmes would not live to regret hurting him. All other thoughts and considerations fled Watson's mind as he set about arming and preparing himself for the task ahead. If he got Holmes back alive, there might be some survivors, as he would need to tend to his friend's wounds. If he had to retrieve Holmes' corpse, there was nowhere they could hide from his vengeance.

Either way, he would find his friend.

~o~o~o~

Holmes stepped into the morning daylight nearly blinded. Trembling with fear and disbelief, he sat heavily upon the stone stairs. He wasn't entirely sure where it was they had finally released him, and he didn't really care. His mind had more than enough to occupy itself right now just trying to comprehend the enormity and horror of what he'd just learned.

_There has to be a way. God help me, there_ has_ to be a way! _said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Watson's.

His mind racing to catch up, he attempted to formulate a plan. Glancing at his watch, he leapt to his feet. Forcing his still shaking legs to obey his commands, he raced down the busy streets looking for something familiar. Watson was out there somewhere. He had to find him quickly.

_Damn them for putting me in this situation! _Holmes snarled silently, ignoring the offended glares and shouts all around him.

_And damn me, too..._

~o~o~o~

Whatever fatigue he might have felt having not slept the night before was washed away as he left the little shack. Part of him wanted to burn what was left inside, but he resisted. Instead, he recalled where and when they were wanting to meet him. There, they would be prepared for him. And, with the type of incentive they had given him, they would expect compliance. Nonetheless, there was always the chance that they did not know for certain he had received the message. Making as much noise as possible on his exit, he waited and hoped the shop owner was watching and reporting. Though his emotions screamed and raged, he forced them back. He had to think clearly now if he was going to form a plan for getting Holmes and getting out of Moscow.

If he met them on their own terms, he was already at a disadvantage. His mind already calculating the odds, Watson let his feet take him in the opposite direction from which he had arrived. He knew that if they just wanted him dead, he wouldn't have been alive to find the note. If they wanted Holmes simply killed, they would not be trying to lure him in using Holmes as bait. Even as his mind conjured countless images of his friend's possible condition, his heart screamed against the first ideas of violence that sprang to mind.

_Of course, he may already be dead,_ said a voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Holmes'.

Watson snarled silently at the voice and squashed it ruthlessly. He refused to give up. And, even if that was the case, he would not stop until everyone involved had answered to him personally on his own terms. As a doctor, the oaths he had sworn prevented him from using his knowledge to inflict damage on others. But there was a difference between violence and justice. It did not take a career in medicine to pull a trigger. In his heart he knew he would have to live with his actions for the rest of his life. But, his mind also knew that without Holmes, he likely would not live very long anyway. And then, he would answer to a higher judge than his conscience.

Within minutes he disappeared into the maze of alleys Holmes had made him memorize shortly after setting up their supplies. Hearing the footsteps following closely behind, he smiled grimly. Quickly he wound his way into a quiet alcove in the vertex of several buildings. In the few seconds he had before his shadow would come around the corner, he concealed himself in a hollow.

Moments later a violent scuffle ensued as Watson darted out of his niche. He had hoped to take the man alive and perhaps gain some information. Unfortunately, in the struggle, the man fought like a demon, swinging his club with abandon. Patiently waiting for the untrained thug to wear himself down, Watson took several blows he barely felt through his white-hot rage. As the oversized man began to slow his attacks, Watson darted in with punches that would have felled a normal person. When these failed to have the desired effect, he ducked another swing and came up with a fist to the man's nose. The man stumbled backward, his head giving a sickening crack as it caught the corner of one of the buildings.

For a moment Watson stared down at what he knew would now be a cooling corpse. His hands still steadier than even he thought they should be, he checked for a pulse. The bloody flap of torn scalp had already told him what he would find. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his soul, he was disappointed more in his lack of remorse than the loss of valuable information. He would suffer the consequences of his actions one day. He only wondered if he would live that long.

Shrugging off these thoughts, he turned his mind back to the task at hand. Holmes was out there somewhere. Holmes needed him. Other, more personal, considerations would have to wait. He hesitated only long enough to drag the body into a sheltered corner where it would take longer to find. Checking himself to ensure there were no traces of blood or the battle on his clothing, he calmly exited the little junction of alleys.

He had made his decision. He was taking the battle to the next level. They may know the city around him better, but he knew criminal minds and intentions thanks to his years of association with Holmes. The smile that graced his features then had people dodging unconsciously to get out of his path as he stalked threateningly toward his destination.

~o~o~o~

Shortly after the sun set, the light of a lamp lit the windows of Holmes' rooms. Watson sat patiently waiting. He was almost disappointed they hadn't approached in daylight. They must have known by now that he had returned and was occupying his friend's rooms. But, thinking over his own plans, he was glad for the darkness. Fewer people roaming the streets would mean fewer innocent casualties should they take the fight to more public areas. He checked the gun sitting on the table beside him one more time before mentally taking inventory of his stock of weapons.

Many a time in the past he had been just as guilty as so many others of the impatience that creeps up on a person expecting action. That calm before the storm would wear on even the strongest nerves. Now, he felt...nothing. His mind had coldly planned out every step and counter-measure, taking in the numerous variables. With a swiftness and thoroughness that would have impressed Holmes, Watson had set the battlefield to his liking. While waiting for these unknown men to step forward and engage him directly, he let his mind wander just far enough to keep him focused. Somewhere far away he felt the stinging and throbbing pain of his earlier injuries. But the stabbing agony in his mind and soul were enough to drown out all other sensations. The guilt that plagued him at the idea that his blundering had caused Holmes' capture was almost more than he could bear.

Over and over again he saw his son fall. He heard the voice of his own child asking him for forgiveness for protecting his own father. It had been William's suicide and the knowledge of who had brought them to that point that had set him upon this path. He could so clearly picture Holmes' mutilated hand. He had not even thought to inspect the finger closely enough to tell more than that it was neither thumb nor little finger. Holmes might never play his beloved violin again. This fact enraged him perhaps more than his guilt at having gotten Holmes involved in this battle at all.

Hearing the dual scuffles of multiple pairs of feet approaching from both ends of the hallway in an attempt at stealth, Watson closed his eyes to listen. He was not aware of the stony expression that crossed his face as he mentally prepared himself for this next encounter. Taking the gun in his good hand and a weighted walking stick in the other, he turned down the wick of the lamp and moved himself into position. Perfectly still, he blended into the shadows so well that the five men who came barreling through the door seconds later never even noticed him. The moment the door closed behind them, Watson leapt into action.

Five was not an unanticipated number, though it was more than he had been hoping. Nonetheless, he took savage pleasure in his dance. Already familiarized with every inch of this room, he had no problems dodging furniture and shelving and walls as he moved from one position to another. He could almost taste their mounting fear as one-by-one they were struck down with a series of lightning fast, well-placed blows from a shadow with no more substance than a zephyr. He was never where they expected, and every attempt to return attacks met with air.

When there was only one left standing near the table, Watson tossed the walking stick aside and cocked the gun directly at the figure's head. Never taking his eyes off the thin, quivering man in front of him, he carefully reached out and turned up the wick of the lamp. In the increased light, he knew he'd made the right choices. The others had been burly enough to likely be there for nothing more than their muscle. This man, he knew was their little pack leader in this attempt.

"Where is Holmes?" he asked in a voice devoid of emotion.

The previous fear transformed into terror as he realized his captor's intentions. Watson knew there was little time before someone would come to investigate the noise from the scuffle. He didn't have time for resistance, and he knew his Russian had been flawless. He refused to believe the man didn't know the answer. His anger flaring once more, he stepped forward to swing the pistol at the man's face. The flash of a knife had him changing directions a moment later as he calmly placed a bullet in the man's left shoulder. The knife had already been half-way through its arc when the bullet had put the man off-balance. But, Watson too had been off-balance in mid step. He barely felt the blade penetrating the layers of clothing as it continued on into flesh. The impact of the bullet combined with the sudden shock forced the man back a few steps before he collapsed backward against the wall. Watson watched with a detached clinical eye as the man slowly slid to a sitting position.

The river of blood that flowed from the wound told Watson he had been a little off in his aim. He had not been intending to kill the man, unless necessary. Though, in this case, necessary was a matter of interpretation. Now he knew he was out of time. The gunshot would ensure everyone in the building would be asking questions in a matter of seconds. Stepping firmly on the man's hand that still clung to the bloodied knife, he ignored the crunch of bones as the man screamed. Kneeling to within inches of that face twisted in speechless terror and agony, Watson could almost feel sorry for the man. Almost.

"Where is Holmes?"

Already he could hear the pounding of feet in the corridor beyond the door. The sound of numerous confused and fearful voices speaking drifted to his ears. But there was only one voice he wanted to hear right now. He eased the pressure off the broken hand as the man gulped in more air to breath. Pulling back the hammer of the gun once more, he placed it an inch from the man's forehead.

"Where were you taking me?"

The man shook his head frantically, his eyes wide with terror. A moment later he opened his mouth to speak, and Watson only just managed to avoid the vomit that spewed forth. Hearing the now angry shouting from the other side of the door, he snarled in frustration. The man was useless to him. He would have to find another way. Watson doused the light as the door began to open. In the cover of the shadows, he leapt through the open window and once more disappeared into the night.

He hoped the trail of blood from his wound left a clear enough trail for them to follow. He would have to reset the playing field and try again. He could only pray that Holmes would not suffer further for this failure as it would take all the longer to find him now that they would be on their guard.


	16. Chapter Fourteen

_**A/N: **Okay, maybe a bit rushed and somewhat incoherent, as I am desperately trying to get some work done on this while dealing with too many other things. If this is too vague or distorted, please let me know and I'll come back to it before I move on to the next chapter. Taking a short break on this for the rest of the day. Will return tonight, hopefully a little more sane._

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Watson made his way through the unfamiliar streets thanking Providence that Holmes had been so very insistent on making him memorize landmarks to guide them to their little hideouts. Though he jogged as much as he could to put distance between himself and the gory scene he had left behind, his old wounds combined with the new injuries to slow him down to a limping walk once more. The exhaustion of nearly two days without sleep or food in conjunction with the constant tension and movements had finally caught up with him. Stumbling for the second time, he forced his hand covering the shallow puncture in his left side to stop the flow of blood. He'd left enough of a trail that if they knew where this last hideout was, they would be coming straight for him. If they did not, then he might survive until morning.

Watson could not help the part of him that hoped they knew where he was leading them. Despite his condition, he needed to know where they were keeping Holmes. Though it was not a very well fortified location, it was one that offered multiple escapes and enough supplies for him to create a few traps of his own. Maybe, with any luck at all, he might catch one that would give him answers. He knew the longer this drew out the greater the odds stacked against him. With each encounter he left behind, he grew weaker and their attacks would grow stronger.

_The longer this goes on, the more damage they will do to Holmes._

Crushing this useless reminder into silence, he focused on his route. He had been reduced to staggering and panting by the time he reached the hidden entrance way to a forgotten basement. The idea of concealing his tracks as he entered only briefly flitted through his mind before he registered the fact that he was not alone. His gun materialized in his left hand before he even had time to realize who was waiting for him. For a moment his mind refused to comprehend what he was seeing. He held the gun steady at his intended target as the detective's gray eyes took in more in those few seconds than his slower, exhausted mind.

As he lowered the gun, Watson saw Holmes' lips move, but could hear nothing beyond the roaring of the blood in his ears. The world around him faded to gray for a moment as he slid down to a sitting position against the door behind him.

_He's alive._

For several seconds all he could think was that one phrase over and over again. His mind locked onto this one thought as if attempting to cling to reality in the sudden giddy feeling of relief that threatened to carry him away. As Holmes fell to his knees in front of him, Watson reached out unconsciously to stop and inspect those hands. They were whole and undamaged. Still too shocked to speak, Watson finally looked up to focus on his friend's pale worry-pinched face.

"How?" he finally managed to ask.

Holmes sighed as if in frustration. Obviously Watson had not heard anything he'd just said. Grabbing his friend by the shoulders, Holmes forced his friend to focus on him. "How badly are you hurt?"

Watson shook himself as he blinked in confusion for a moment. It took him a few seconds to remember the events of the last day. Finally, shaking his head, he pushed Holmes' probing hand away. "It's shallow. Might need a couple of stitches. I'll be fine. But we can't stay here."

"You left a trail," Holmes stating, frowning grimly.

"That was the point," Watson returned, struggling to rise while ignoring his friend's shocked expression.

For a moment it seemed as if Holmes was going to prevent him from moving before finally helping him to his unsteady feet. Refusing to meet his friend's eyes, Watson scanned the room for supplies. Pocketing the gun again, he began to load his pockets and a small bag with needed items. They would have to abandon this place as quickly as possible. Holmes hesitated once more before joining Watson.

"I'll explain later," Watson told him. "Right now, we've got to find a safe place."

"There's no time. We have to get out of Moscow."

To this Watson simply nodded. His exhaustion was obvious in every stiff movement. Already he could feel the beginnings of worse coming to the surface in his swirling thoughts. Glad to let Holmes take control of the situation once more, he forced his mind to focus on the task ahead and let all else wait. Besides, his nightmares would be punishment enough, most likely.

Opting for one of their alternate escapes, Holmes checked to make sure no one was watching. Keeping one eye on Watson, he led them through a series of joined basements before returning to the surface. From there it was a short trip to another location Holmes had yet to reveal to Watson in their forays. Confused, but too exhausted to question, Watson followed Holmes into the back of a little shop. Holmes turned just in time to catch his friend as he stumbled and nearly landed on his knees. Only then did Watson finally manage to take in Holmes' overall appearance. The pinched expression and fear in those eyes told more than he wanted to know.

"You're in no condition to travel right now, Watson," Holmes explained, carefully dancing around the unspoken questions.

"Holmes."

Holmes carefully settled his friend in a chair and retrieved some lamps, completely ignoring the warning tone.

"There is much we must do, and no—"

"Holmes."

"We must—"

"Holmes!"

He slapped his friend's hands away as Holmes again attempted to divert Watson's attention. Seeing he had no choice, Holmes sighed heavily. Watson watched silently as his friend wrestled with something before finally dropping his head into his undamaged hands.

"Where have you been?" Watson finally asked.

As if reaching a decision, Holmes raised his head. The look of desolation sparked fear in Watson's mind. He knew neither of them were going to like what was coming next.

"I don't know. And there's no time. I have...information..." Holmes forced his gaze to meet those steel-hard green eyes. "Do you trust me?"

Watson blinked in astonishment. He wasn't sure if he should feel wounded by the question or concerned for his friend's state of mind. "Of course."

Holmes nodded, again averting his gaze as he reached for the medical supplies. This time Watson allowed him to tend the wound, giving him a chance to gather his thoughts. He didn't have long to wait.

"We have to separate. I need-"

"No."

"I need you to trust me, Watson. There is something I must do. We're not abandoning our mission, but I have to do this."

"Explain."

"As I said, there is no time. I need you to trust me. You have to go to Eyemouth. It isn't far from Edin—"

"I know where it is," Watson growled, slapping his hands away again. "Why?"

"Because I can't do both!" Holmes snapped. "I can't..."

Whatever it was Holmes was about to say he bit off abruptly. Still not meeting Watson's eyes, he scrubbed his face with his hands. Taking a fist full of Holmes' coat, Watson forced him to meet his eyes.

"Why?"

"There is an assassination planned. Mycroft is but one of many. I cannot save him and stop the smuggling ring that will bring the weapons needed to pull off the entirety of the plot. Stopping one will not prevent the other. I need you to trust me and to follow my instructions exactly."

Relaxing his grip, Watson sat back once more. Now that he was certain this was not about to be another Reichenbach Falls all over again, he nodded slowly. "You cannot send him a telegram or—"

Holmes shook his head as he waved away this idea impatiently. "Our only safety lies in the fact that everyone in London thinks us dead, including my brother. I can move undetected and they won't be looking for any interference in Eyemouth. So far as the organization knows, we're in Moscow. Even after leaving here, they won't know where to begin looking for us. They cannot know how much information I've acquired."

For several seconds Watson eyed his friend suspiciously. There was more here—much more—he could tell. But Holmes obviously meant to keep this to himself for now. Too weary to argue and not doubting his friend's sincere concern for both himself and his brother, Watson nodded slowly. "You will meet me in Eyemouth?"

Holmes relaxed visibly with relief. His face softened in understanding. He didn't like this anymore than Watson, but he had worked out a plan that would accomplish both. His only fear was that he was sending his dearest friend into the more dangerous of the situations, and likely would never see him alive again.

"I will," Holmes promised reassuringly.

Seeing no further argument from his friend, Holmes launched into his plans. Watson's exhaustion was apparent, and he dearly wished they had time for him to rest and recover. For now, it was enough to know that he was alive. He sent a silent prayer to anyone that would listen that some day they would meet again under better circumstances. But that some day could be a very, very long time from now. He sincerely hoped that would be the case as anything else meant failure.


	17. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen **

Watson heaved deep breaths, his face red with fury. Regaining his breath, he let fly some of the most colorful curses he could remember ever having learned. The rest of the patrons of the establishment nodded with approval at a few of them. The man he had left lying in a bloody heap on the floor tried to send some back in Watson's direction through the blood pouring down his face. Even as Watson stepped forward to finish what he'd started with the little weasel, a couple of hands reached out to stop him.

Through the haze of alcohol and anger, Watson regained some sense of control and allowed the other less than sober patrons assist the little man. A broken arm, badly twisted ankle, and broken nose were the least the man deserved, in his mind. Turning back to his cup, he downed the rest of his drink before staggering drunkenly off in the opposite direction toward the little hovel he now called home. He'd already lost track of how long he'd been staying in this filthy little place. His poor attire and ragged appearance left no doubt he belonged there now, though.

Weeks had come and gone, the weather had cooled, and his despair grew by the day. The disguise of a neat, dark-haired scholar had disappeared completely. His natural colored hair had grown long and shaggy and shaving was something that happened when he felt ambitious enough to do more than drown himself at the local tavern. His nightmares tormented him constantly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that once he had been a gentleman, a doctor. But it really didn't matter anymore. He was a labor hand now. He was a rough-edged, down-on-his-luck traveler with a thick Scottish burr. Had he ever really been anything else, no one could tell.

Exhausted, feeling more sorry for himself than he could remember, Watson flopped bonelessly down on the straw, blanket-covered pile he called a bed.

~o~o~o~

Mrs. Hudson looked up at the empty, curtained windows of the sitting room. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she'd set foot up there. The house had felt so empty without her tenants. Fearing for her health, several people had tried to talk her into selling. When she refused to leave, her sister had finally taken things into her own hands and retrieved the woman. Though Mrs. Hudson had finally agreed that a holiday would be beneficial, she had not expected it to be so long.

Now, facing the door to her house for the first time in months, she dreaded her return.

Mrs. Hudson carefully unlocked the door and stepped into her foyer. The chill in the air was enough of a reminder of how hollow these rooms had become. It was just a place. It was not a living, lonely entity. _She _was the living, lonely entity.

Shaking off the creeping melancholy, Mrs. Hudson sniffed in disapproval. This would never do. There was much work to be done. She had no time to sit there in her foyer with her bags feeling sorry for herself. What was done, was done. It was time to resume her life.

~o~o~o~

The whispers had begun shortly after the funerals. Lestrade was going to retire. They could see it in every unresolved case, every desultory day spent perusing case files, every night spent aimlessly hanging around the Dancing Duck. The man was a ghost of his former self. He had lost all interest in criminal activities and even his wife didn't recognize him anymore. Everyone at Scotland Yard knew he wouldn't be around much longer.

Lestrade knew. He could hear the whispers for himself. They paid little attention to his comings and goings. He heard them talking about how he was going to let go sooner or later. He listened as they pitied the man who had lost so very much. They had all known his feelings toward the arrogant little detective, despite the events in recent years. They knew he had formed a bond with the doctor, despite the man's decline.

Hearing those rumors flying all around him as his fellow inspectors eyed him with pity to see if he still had a pulse, Lestrade shrugged into his coat and set out into the chilly October night. Another day had come and gone in a blur of meaningless crimes, either solved or unsolved. He was finished with his office and the Yard for another day. In some ways, he was finished with everything. It wouldn't be much longer now. He could feel it in his bones.

~o~o~o~

Jacob wandered the streets forlornly. He had been doing this so long with his little band of Irregulars that he wondered if there really was any point to it anymore. He'd been faithful in taking care of his charges, but it was never easy. Though they obeyed him and followed their orders, sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if he was really worthy of that. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had watched out for them. They had approved of his leadership. He wasn't exactly the eldest, so it amazed him all the more that others listened to him.

It had been a hard summer, and even tougher autumn. They had all worked long, hard days. Many of them didn't see their beds until long after dark and were out of them again long before sunrise. The seemingly endless weeks this had gone on had worn them all down. He was tired and frustrated. That tension seemed to spread to the others as bickering escalated to outright brawls some days.

There just seemed no point to any of it anymore.

They were on their own.

Though a part of him wanted to cry in sheer frustration and the heartbreak of it all, he had made his promises. He and the others would keep going. Somehow they would find a way. Maybe some day they could all be proud of the men and women they had become. But that day seemed so far away on this cold, lonely night. Watching yet another pair of young lovers strolling past the constable on patrol, Jacob wondered if there really would be a some day for all of them. After all, who really cared anymore about a bunch of filthy little street urchins?

~o~o~o~

Mycroft ate heartily. Warmed by the fire roaring beside him, he sank comfortably back into his chair. The false sense of peace and contentment here in his room at the Diogenes always lulled him into something approaching security. For a man of his understanding and power, that was something to be cherished. Briefly he wondered where the months had gone. He remembered feeling downright harried at the blur of events taking place all around him. His gaze wandering around him now, he mused at how time seemed to stop here in these rooms.

Of course, that hadn't always been the case.

The ghost of his little brother didn't haunt him as often now as it once had. But, as the months rolled by, he had come to accept the quiet this had brought to his life. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't had to watch out for Sherlock. It always seemed his brother's activities had been a constant nuisance. He almost missed those times.

The blazing fire and full belly had lulled Mycroft into a doze. The sudden, unheard presence beside him had him fully awake in moments. Accepting the telegram with a disapproving frown for being disturbed during his after-dinner nap, he dismissed the man with an irritated wave of his hand. He knew full well that the only reason someone would dare disturb him with something like a telegram while safely ensconced in his sanctum within the Diogenes, was if it was the utmost importance.

His watery gray eyes scanned the telegram briefly. His expression gave away nothing of its contents. Those who needed to know already knew its contents long before it had arrived at its destination. Heaving a sigh at such a meaningless disturbance in his otherwise pleasant evening, Mycroft tossed the telegram into the fire. He closed his eyes to pick up where he had left off. His last thought before sleep took him once more was the acknowledgement to himself that he almost missed his little brother's antics. At least they had been entertaining.

~o~o~o~

Cursing the cold-numbed fingers that continued to defy his attempts to gain access to his bedroom window, Holmes listened carefully for any signs of having been spotted. He wondered if he was perhaps out of practice. It had been some time since he'd had to break in to his old window. Maybe he really was just getting too old for this. Some part of his weary mind mused at the idea that he had once actually considered retirement and the end of all these adventures. Now, it seemed unlikely he would live long enough to worry about such things as retirement and boredom.

He nearly fell from his perch a moment later when the window practically flew open of its own accord. However, the arm that reached out to haul him in bodily prevented him from breaking something vital just as he had thought his grip lost. As he landed unceremoniously on the bare, wooden floor he listened closely to the muttered curses behind him as his helper closed and locked the window once more.

"Good evening, Lestrade," Holmes called casually, pulling himself to his feet.

The inspector snorted in a rather undignified way as he crossed his arms. Sensing the tension even through the darkness, Holmes deliberately kept his hands at his sides. He knew he deserved what was coming next. And after the test of the man's patience the last time...

"Mrs. Hudson has tea ready and waiting in the kitchen."

Lestrade moved toward the door, leaving Holmes staring for a moment. Quietly he caught up to the inspector in the dimly lit hallway and took him by the arm. The anger he had expected was not there as the inspector turned to face him questioningly. As the inspector caught sight of the concern, he smiled maliciously in a way that had Holmes edging back a step.

"I don't know about you, Mr. Holmes, but I could use a nice cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned something about food, but I was a little busy watching for prowlers," Lestrade commented, a little too innocently.

Lestrade resumed his trek down the stairs and into the kitchen. Realizing that the little man was not, in fact, going to give him what he deserved, Holmes relaxed considerably. At least there wouldn't be any mysterious bruises to have to explain in the near future. Entering the kitchen now filled with the wonderful smells of cooking food and—to his joy—coffee as well as tea, he stopped to take in the familiar sight.

A moment later he almost retreated back through the door as a scarlet-faced, furious Mrs. Hudson stalked up to him like a mother bear protecting her den. The full-armed slap she gifted him left him with his ears ringing. Nonetheless, he caught every last word she hissed, remembering to keep her voice to something the neighbors couldn't hear.

"I've got one of those waiting for the doctor, too. Whenever he decides to come home. Once was enough! You gave him this idea, Mr. Holmes! I might have expected this sort of madness from you, but..."

Catching sight of Lestrade's attempt to conceal his grin behind his cup of tea, Holmes cocked an amused eyebrow. Now he knew why Lestrade hadn't bothered.

"...got weeks of cleaning to make this place livable again! You have no idea—"

_It is good to be back!_ Holmes thought happily, squashing the more depressing and pessimistic thoughts of how temporary this reunion would be.

Mrs. Hudson's seemingly endless tirade was cut off as Holmes smiled widely, taking the woman into an embrace. He vaguely heard Lestrade coking on his tea at such an open and uncharacteristic display. Forcing darker thoughts to the furthest reaches of his soul, Holmes pulled back keeping a firm grip on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. Her anger deflated into amusement as she stared up at her tenant.

"So you _did _get the message?"

"Of course I did, Mr. Holmes. Inspector Lestrade can tell you, I was too overcome with grief to attend the funerals," she replied with some annoyance at his doubts.

Holmes chuckled softly. Turning his attention to the inspector, he stepped up to the table. He cocked an amused eyebrow at the inspector as he still felt the burning sting across the left side of his face. Preparing himself a hot, soothing cup of coffee, he settled his mind to the business at hand.

"And you received yours as well, I take it?"

Lestrade nodded impatiently. "I should be retiring any day now, according to the rumors around the office."

"Good. Then there is just one more needed for this little war council, and then we shall begin."

"I'll go and wake him, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson volunteered, heading for her own rooms.

For a time they sipped their drinks in silence, savoring the warm comfort of the kitchen. Moments later a sleepy-eyed bundle of rags flew through the doorway to latch on to the detective nearly sending his cup crashing to the floor.

"Mr. Holmes!" the little voice cried happily, squeezing the breath out of him. "Jacob said you'd be back. He said the doctor—"

Prying the little arms off of himself, Holmes gently took the little boy by the shoulders. "I am sorry, Harold. The doctor and I didn't know how long we would be away."

"It's alright," the little boy, said cheerfully. "You're back now."

Those hazel eyes bored into his guilty soul as Holmes listened to the boy's description of their recent activities. All had played out as he had hoped these last few months. Though he had thought there would be more time, things had still progressed better than he could have hoped. There still seemed little chance of success, but he would not abandon Mycroft or his other brother, Watson. Yet, with this much help here in London, he might just live long enough to know his efforts had not been entirely in vain.


	18. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

Watson emerged from his drunken stupor to the feel of dozens of hands gripping him. He fought and twisted on his makeshift mattress as he struggled to break free. The cursing, rough voices raised in pitch as he flailed and kicked violently. Suddenly he was flipped rather painfully onto his stomach as some of those hands forced his arms up behind his back. He barely had a chance to register the fact that someone was now sitting on his legs before a swift blow to his already pounding skull sent him back into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

~o~o~o~

Rock.

Cold, wet, hard, uncomfortable rock.

Watson vaguely wondered why he could never be kidnapped, beaten, and then left in the comfort of a nice, warm bed for a change. His head pounded with the dull throbbing of too much alcohol the night before and now a second throbbing joined the first as he felt the goose egg on the right side of his head resting on the cold rock beneath him. While the coolness of the rock felt good on the bump, it certainly did nothing for the stinging throb in his old wounds. They muttered at him angrily for their mistreatment even as his dark sense of humor had him chuckling at his situation.

_I must be getting too old for this._

"Ah, so you're awake," a voice said somewhere nearby.

Only now realizing he was not alone, Watson carefully cracked open an eye through the mess of greasy unwashed hair covering half his face. At least he was not met with the painful stinging of sunlight. Though the cold of the cavern was now making him shiver uncomfortably.

"I suppose I am," he muttered unhappily, his Scottish accent thickened by combined weariness and pain. "Too bad."

"Well, if Tiny had his way about it, you wouldn't be," another voice called back, making the other chuckle.

Glancing around at the gathered group of roughs, Watson sighed tiredly. "That little sewer rat has friends? Huh, too bad for me. So, what will it be? Given the cavern, I'm guessing one of these tidal caves and a nice, pleasant drowning."

Several of the gathered band laughed openly. A couple frowned darkly as if wanting more than a simple drowning to entertain them. Watson waited. Their chosen spokesman motioned them to silence as he drew out a knife. He had hoped for something a little less violent, but he prepared himself as best he could. With his hands tied behind his back and legs free maybe he could...

The man crouched down directly in Watson's line of sight. He held the knife more in warning than threat, making Watson curious. Holding off on his planned attack, Watson eyed the man's darkly glittering eyes. There seemed something more toward consideration than any sort of sadistic enjoyment in this.

"And what would make you think you'd get off so easy, Mr. Watt?"

Watson affected a shrug. "You know I did you a favor. You looked like you enjoyed it enough last night."

He grinned widely. "True enough. The little rat talks too much. But, you've left us at a disadvantage. We don't have that many people, and we need every able man working. With a broken arm, he's no good to us. And you owe us for that loss."

Watson nodded as he accepted this, never breaking eye contact.

"Since you did do us a favor last night, we've decided to give you a choice. You can fill his spot, or we can drop you over the cliffs."

Watson could not help the painful laugh that erupted from his bruised and aching chest. "So that's why you didn't rough me up worse."

The man nodded, still gripping the knife. "But we don't know you. There will be some rules. As you seem less concerned about being tossed off the cliffs, I'll give you all the details before you make a decision."

Watson grunted, attempting to shift into a more comfortable position.

"Once we show you where you'll be staying, you will not leave. There will be no more drinking unless we give it to you. You will wake when we tell you. You will work when we tell you. You will speak with no one outside unless we tell you. You will do what work we give you and you will not ask questions."

Again Watson grunted. "Slave labor or a watery death."

The man smiled at Watson's understanding, something in his eyes telling Watson he really didn't care one way or the other.

"How about pay? You were paying the rat, after all. I should get something out of it."

For a moment he turned away, as if looking for direction from someone else Watson could not see in the shadows. He knew this would likely lead to the death of the man he'd beaten. They would not give his pay to another, otherwise. And, as he was no longer useful to them, he was also a liability. Watson filed this away for later as the man turned back to him.

"Agreed. And when we are finished here, if you live that long, you will be let go."

"Too easy."

Irritation flashed through those dark eyes for a moment.

"I know what you're doing. You're a bunch of smugglers. I don't care what you're hauling or why. But you're not going to let me live long enough to spend that pay or talk to anyone. That's why you agreed. It's too easy. Might as well haul me up to the cliff and dump me. I'm dead either way."

The man with the knife rose and backed off several steps as a neatly shod pair of shoes stepped forward. Keeping to a safe distance to avoid the smell wafting from Watson's filthy body, a well-dressed man of some age stepped forward. His graying hair and blue eyes identified him quickly in Watson's mind.

"From what I understand, Mr. Watt, you have little else to look forward to outside of here. At least here you will earn pay and have a place to sleep that isn't infested with fleas. As you can see for yourself, if we wanted you dead, you would be already. However, my men tell me that you are a hard worker when the mood strikes you. You have no family or other ties that we can find, and you don't ask questions. Everyone here knows we exist. And those same people are also frightened enough of what we know and _can_ do not to cross us. People have disappeared for lesser offenses than your little display of belligerence last night.

"I do not make this offer lightly. You can accept the offer and we will reconsider whether or not you live long enough to spend your pay _after_ you've proven yourself. Or, we can slit your throat and toss you off the cliffs, as you seem to desire."

All of this was said with the casual air of a man discussing the weather this autumn as the little shopkeeper addressed him directly. Watson had suspected involvement from the people in the town. Fear of crossing the wrong people was one thing. But he had sensed something more akin to voluntary cooperation from some. Only now was he beginning to realize how deeply their influence ran in this town. It was not the first time he'd been to a coastal town where the criminal element held the real power. But never had he seen it displayed so openly. This might be easier than he had thought.

Watson pretended to consider the offer for a moment, while under scrutiny from all gathered. Finally he sighed and nodded. "It's true. I don't have much. I suppose I could make myself useful to someone for a while. What were you paying the little rat, anyway?"

The man smiled in a way that chilled Watson to his soul. There was more here, but he didn't dare ask just yet. "Very good, then. Smith, cut him loose. Show him around. If anyone sees anything amiss, kill him and report it to me later. I have work to do."

Watson chuckled to himself as he struggled to a sitting position while Smith approached with his knife once more. He waited patiently for the ropes to be cut off his wrists as he eyed those gathered. Some still seemed disappointed at the lack of entertainment provided in this meeting. Others seemed to approve of the decision. Watson knew he could trust no one here, but at least he knew now who to watch for a knife in the back. He massaged his aching wrists and accepted the hand Smith offered.

He still had no idea how he was to go about fulfilling his part in Holmes' plans. Even after all these weeks since fleeing Moscow, there had been little progress on his part. Only now being initiated into their ranks meant he had even less time than ever. He had yet to discover what it was they were bringing into the country that could possibly be so very devastating as Holmes had described. And, once he learned that much, there was still the question of how to prevent it.

Now he understood Holmes' reluctance to send him into this mess. In the beginning, he had thought Holmes was once again trying to protect him by sending him away from the greatest danger. The guilt that he had seen in those gray eyes now made sense. Holmes had known Watson was stepping into a situation that would further their goals, but could cost him his life. Watson still would not shy away, even knowing the cost. He just regretted he hadn't told Holmes what he had really been thinking at the time. The selfish part of him wanted to claim _his_ rights as a brother and go with him.

As they exited the main cavern for one of the numerous littler ones, he said a silent prayer to anything that would listen. Watson could not begrudge Holmes the effort to save his elder brother's life that kept him away at a time like this. He prayed that Holmes would be successful and not torment himself with guilt for too long for sending his own friend to his death.


	19. Chapter Seventeen

_**A/N: **My frustrated fingers are twitching spasmodically. I'm hating the way this is turning out; especially in the sense that it feels so vague and rushed. There are so many more details I would love to put in here. And I'll apologize to everyone reading this for these failures. However, real life is demanding my attention in a most painful way. I do plan on going back to revamp it some time before the end of the year. But I refuse to leave you all hanging with nothing for that long. So I'm trying to at least get the story base completed here before I'm torn away from it for a few months._

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen **

Holmes' shoulders slumped dejectedly as he read the telegram. Watson had disappeared. Though this had also been part of his plan, he could not deny the fear that crept into him. He had sent Watson into a situation that had little hope for success on his own, but might garner the information they needed. His contact in Eyemouth had kept watch, but only now had there been anything to report. And the news did not inspire confidence. Watson had disappeared as thoroughly as if he'd been killed and his body...

Crushing the telegram and then throwing it into the fire, Holmes banished those thoughts. They would not help him now. As he continued to hide in Mrs. Hudson's spare room attached to her own rooms downstairs, he had learned to be very grateful indeed for a safe place to stay. Day and night he organized and maneuvered his pieces into play. After two weeks, he was only just getting to a point he felt ready to move. The endless hours spent plotting and gathering information had worn on even his endurance. But maybe now it would pay off.

Lestrade's performance as a broken, burned out inspector at Scotland Yard had worked to perfection. With so many people thinking him a useless agent of the law at this point, no one even bothered to pay attention to his movements. He had managed to gather more information on his own in the last few months than all of them had combined in the preceding months of investigation. Case after case he found evidence of tampering, false testimonies, and even some crimes swept into the endless miles of paperwork never to be seen again. All of this had pointed to a handful of inspectors and officials of higher rank within the Yard. After going over all the information with him, Holmes and Lestrade were both convinced of their corruption. Though Lestrade had posed the argument that they were being set up, Holmes had convinced him otherwise.

Lestrade had accepted this with little grace. The idea of such horrendous corruption within his own trusted Yarders was almost too much for him. He had seen a lot in his years, but there were some people that seemed beyond reproach, until now. He had almost abandoned Holmes, then. But for all his damaged faith in his fellow man and law enforcement officials, he knew Holmes would not have put him in this position unless he thought Lestrade trustworthy. Holmes had given no word or gesture of impatience or irritation with the inspector upon his return. But, even as Lestrade allowed Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and feed him, he could not help feeling at least somewhat guilty. Some things he could not share, even with Mr. Holmes.

Even as Holmes turned his attention back to the Yarder sitting across from him in Mrs. Hudson's parlor, he did not regret his decision to trust the man. It had been a gamble, though the inspector had pulled off his part. He had not been entirely sure the man would come back after he had stormed out of their little meeting in a back alley a couple of days previously. His conscience questioned keeping him involved from here.

"Bad news?" Lestrade questioned softly.

"Not entirely," Holmes replied evasively. "While I appreciate you volunteering your time, thus far, you do not have to do this, Lestrade."

Though Holmes had spoken gently, trying to convey his sincere gratitude, Lestrade's face suffused with blood as he gave the detective an affronted glare. "Do you really expect me to bow out now? Now that I know the truth, I cannot let it go. If anyone deserves the right to see those bastards charged for their crimes, it's me!"

Though the inspector's vehemence had surprised him, Holmes lips twitched in an approximation of a smile. He always had underestimated the inspector on many levels. But he had never once doubted the man's tenacity. He had expected as much, but it still did not sit well with him.

"Then, when the time comes, you will see that your wife is safely out of the way," Holmes instructed.

Lestrade snorted. "Of course. I'm not an idiot, Mr. Holmes. Cee would kill me if she knew what I was up to lately. And there's still a chance of that when this is all over just for the deception."

Mrs. Hudson could not quite stifle the giggle that escaped her as she mended Holmes' torn clothing. Holmes himself very nearly chuckled in amusement at the inspector's dark glare. He appreciated the man's attempt at levity, despite their circumstances. Even he had expressed some concern regarding Holmes' exhausted appearance.

"Then all that is left is to organize the Irregulars. We must move swiftly once we start. They have followed each of the men involved, and nothing of the government contacts have come to light. I'm expecting those to be exposed or confirmed through Mycroft when we move against the Yard," Holmes said, mapping out the plan in his head as he spoke. "Likely as not, he will not be happy to see me after this second deception. I have kept my presence a secret yet even from him. Once we capture all those involved within Scotland Yard, they may lead us to connections I have been suspecting in the Diogenes. Only Mycroft will be able to verify those, and they can perhaps give us more. At least we will have removed the greatest threat in this little assassination plot."

"Little?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Holmes nodded grimly. Lestrade repressed a shiver. Holmes had not taken him into his confidence regarding the true scale of this operation. But every time the detective let something like that slip, Lestrade began to understand more. The sheer size and complexity alone bothered him deeply. They were a handful of people, mostly children, going up against a far superior force. Surprising and cunning were all they had in their favor at this point. And, even then, it likely would not be enough this time. Shaking his head, Lestrade heaved himself out of his seat. Placing himself directly before Holmes, he ensured he had the detective's undivided attention.

"You know I'm throwing in my lot with you, regardless of how this turns out. But what of the others? You called this a war council, and that is_ exactly_ what it has turned out to be. Cee will be safe enough with her sisters. But what about those lads, the Irregulars? And Mrs. Hudson? Have you considered what will happen if this fails?"

Holmes would not allow the man now staring down his nose at him to win this contest of wills. And yet, images of his Watson flashed unbidden through his mind. As if the inspector could see straight through his thoughts and into that guilty soul, the man's expression softened. He always had known the detective was not the heartless creature he wanted others to believe. He had only wanted to assure himself that Holmes was not taking a too narrow view of the situation.

"Good," he nodded in satisfaction, leaving Holmes blinking in confusion. "So long as you understand, there _will _be casualties. Maybe not to the extent we fear, but not everyone will come off clean in this one. You must know that; because when the time comes, you won't have time to feel sorry for yourself." Lestrade knelt down placing a comforting hand on Holmes' shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze once more. "Just remember, John isn't here right now to knock some sense into you. I've done a lot in my career with the Yard, and accepting those consequences we cannot always predict is still the hardest of all."

Hearing such a lecture, even in a sternly gentle and understanding voice, rattled something within the detective. Quickly forcing his mask of calm authority back into place, he shook off Lestrade's grip. "While I appreciate your efforts, Inspector, I am not unfamiliar with—"

His next words were interrupted as Mrs. Hudson launched herself from her chair to throw open the parlor window. A scruffy, rag covered child flipped happily through the open window. She just managed to avoid disturbing Mrs. Hudson's sewing basket as she bounced happily over to the detective.

"Mr. Holmes, Jacob sent me to tell you that final preparations are in place," the dark haired little urchin reported, her cherubic face scrunching in the effort to pronounce the exact words.

Holmes smiled proudly at the little girl, patting her on the shoulder. "Well done, Miss Eve! Your speech is coming along beautifully. I'm only sorry it took so long for me to hear it for myself."

The little girl flushed to her hairline as she beamed at the detective's proud smile. After spending most of her early days with the Irregulars as a mute, it had taken a great effort on his part to coax her into testing that voice at last. Dr. Watson encouraged Holmes to tutor her himself for a time immediately afterward. He had never regretted that decision, even when at his most impatient. Since then, they had watched her closely as the rest of their little band continued her education. Holmes had mentioned more than once that music might be in her future with a voice such as hers.

As the little girl flung herself into his arms, Holmes at last understood what it was he had missed in the pursuit of his career. Not for the first time in his life, he felt deeply painful empathy for his dear friend who had once known this joy, but had lost it so unfairly to the illnesses that had claimed the lives of both his children. Eve buried her face in his shoulder sniffing slightly as she tried to hold back her tears.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she whispered tearfully.

Holmes heart squeezed painfully as he briefly returned the embrace before setting her back on her feet. "Now then, I have a message for you to take back to Jacob. Are you up to the task?" he asked gently. "Or would you like me to write it down?"

Reflexively she shook her head first, her little curls bouncing around her face before remembering to answer. "No. I can take the message, Mr. Holmes."

"Excellent."

Mrs. Hudson pressed some biscuits and a cup of milky tea into the child's tiny hands while Holmes worked with her patiently for some minutes as she struggled to memorize and repeat the message. Lestrade noted with some amusement that the detective had worked with her until the little girl was fairly stuffed with sweets and tea before he let her go. He'd never doubted Holmes had a soft spot for those children, but that little display had been more than he would have ever expected. Maybe Holmes was not a father in the traditional sense, but there was no doubt in Lestrade's mind that those children were as much his as any man could claim their own blood relations. Perhaps more so, as the detective had never seen the need to distinguish familial relations purely through blood lines. For him, family seemed to be defined through something deeper and more meaningful.

Catching sight of Lestrade's unconscious smile, Holmes deliberately schooled his features into a mask of impassivity as he took up his cup once more. Frowning at the cold contents, he glared at the inspector as if it were his fault.

"As I was saying, Lestrade. You need not concern yourself on that count," Holmes continued calmly. "I have plans in motion as we speak that will ensure the safety of as many as I am aware of in this situation."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed disapprovingly as she took up her sewing once again. Holmes turned that glare from Lestrade to share it with his landlady for her continued disobedience. Despite his best efforts, the woman refused to budge. She still played the part of a grieving woman locking herself away in her own house. While this provided a safe haven for Holmes and the Irregulars from time to time, it did little to settle his concern for the stubborn woman.

"So what is our next move?" Lestrade asked, resuming his seat.

Holmes smile sent shivers down Lestrade's spine. As Holmes began to outline his plan of attack, he found himself smiling almost malevolently in anticipation. The idea of such a thorough cleanup of Scotland Yard officials appealed to him. Ignoring his misgivings about Lestrade's part in the events that were about to take place, he forced himself to accept the inspector's obvious cooperation.

Holmes could not even begin to predict the other events now taking place that would make him regret that decision in the days to come.


	20. Chapter Eighteen

_**A/N: **Okay, just a few more chapters to go now. In the final stretch. I'm still working to get them out as fast as I can. I appreciate everyone's time and patience in all of this. _

_**Shell less snail:** Thank you so very much for the reviews! I'm not quite sure where that line came from, but it seemed right. As for killing Watson...*sigh* It's a lot harder than it seems. lol_

**_Riandra: _**_Thank you! Don't worry, I won't keep that one hanging for long. hehehe I'm not _that _cruel__  
_

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

The pathetic excuse for a fire did little to warm the small cavern Watson had been forced to live in these last couple of weeks. As November crawled by in a blur of exhaustion, he began to wonder at how easy it was to play the part sometimes. He was awakened at random hours during the day and night and told to haul crates filled with mysterious items. He had no way of knowing what was in those crates and no way to find out. Frustration was quickly crushed in the seemingly endless activity that tested his endurance to its limits. But he knew that giving up or trying to escape would only lead to his death at this point. He refused to accept failure.

Playing the part of a drunken laborer travelling aimlessly had been easy when there was so little acting involved. He wasn't exactly shunned, but few said more than a handful of words to him at any one point, and those weren't much more than simple commands. He had immediately learned that few actually lived in those caverns. A few people rotated guard duty on a daily basis. Watson was given ample food and water, but none of it was very appealing. His overworked body, however, made some of it taste almost as good as Mrs. Hudson's cooking on those longer days.

The harder part, he quickly discovered was suppressing the man he had once been. Around the smugglers, this typically wasn't an issue. His opinion of them was something not usually repeated in polite company. But the father, doctor, and gentleman he had once been screamed for release every time his eyes fell on little Emily. Emily was a little girl of no more than maybe five years old. She was used as a slave and keeper for this little cave system. She served them food, mended their clothing, suffered physical abuse for their entertainment...

Only once had Watson attempted to intervene. Too exhausted to think clearly and suffering the effects of prolonged exposure to these cold, damp rock walls, he had blindly charged one of the men that had slapped Emily in response to her having been too slow bringing him his food. She did not make a sound as the slap had sent her sprawling to the ground. Watson had begun to think the child was mute. In a blind rage, the father inside of him had come to the fore and he had kicked the man nearly hard enough to break ribs. Before he had a chance to reconsider the idiocy of this move, several other men had him in their grips. Some laughed, others taunted, but all were in agreement that his protectiveness of that little girl was a greatly useful tool.

From then on, if he didn't work hard enough, she suffered. If he stumbled from exhaustion, she was starved. They wanted him whole and healthy so as to be useful to them. Emily they simply enjoyed tormenting for the fun of the thing. His heart ached and his soul screamed against this, but there was little he could do for her beyond what he was already doing. From that first night, she had begun to haunt him. Beneath the filth and rags she wore, her face reminded him so strongly of his beloved Mary as her blue eyes radiated a quiet dignity and inner strength. Despite what these men thought of her, she was not a broken toy. Those eyes were not dulled with her experiences. They flared from time to time with a defiance that made Watson want to cheer with hope.

If only he could find a way to help her escape.

Time and again he had slipped her some of his food; especially during those times they starved her for fun and then beat her for fainting. Often she would appear in the shadows near him, quietly watching. Even when she trembled with fear in front of the others, she refused to back down or give into that fear. She did not cower or beg them to stop, no matter how harsh the treatment. She simply took what punishment she was given and went back to her chores. With Watson, she seemed curious. Often he caught her watching him. She would not come within reach of his arms, but did not flinch away when he drew near to her to hand her food. Never had he seen her smile...or cry. But there was something in those eyes that spoke of intelligence beyond her years.

These musings were interrupted as the subject of his thoughts appeared once more, stealithy slipping through the shadows to avoid notice from the one or two others that slept nearby this night. His green eyes took in her haggard, half-starved appearance and it was all he could do not to take her into her arms to comfort her. He waved and flashed her a gentle, encouraging smile. She showed no outward response to this, as she curled her knees to her chest and sat watching him in silence. They had had many of these silent exchanges in recent days. He had even formed a sort of language with her using their own very subtle hand signals. Tonight she flicked a finger to let him know they were alone.

Watson nodded solemnly in return. Reluctant to move his hands away from this poor excuse for warmth, he scooted backward all the way to the wall and motioned for her to take a turn. She cocked her head at him as if questioning his sanity at such a gesture. Watson curled his legs underneath him, ignoring the pain of the solid cold rock beneath. Folding his arms to bury his hands in his armpits, he nodded with a faint but encouraging smile toward the fire. She continued to eye him thoughtfully, but not as if questioning his sincerity in making her feel he was not a threat anymore. Finally she nodded slowly with gratitude as she silently slipped forward on her bare feet to crouch down near the fire.

Keeping him directly in her line of sight above the tiny flames, she frowned as he began to shiver. She motioned him to come closer to the fire. He raised his eyebrows questioningly as if asking if she were certain. When she nodded, he slowly unfolded himself and moved just close enough to feel the warmth. He smiled at her gratefully as she did not back off when he stretched his hands toward the flames. For a few minutes they simply enjoyed the silent companionship of each other's presence.

Watson sighed heavily as the moment was shattered shortly afterward. Hearing something with her keener, younger ears she leapt to her feet and disappeared silently into the shadows. Knowing it was only a matter of time before he would be alerted to whatever had forced her to retreat, he continued warming his hands as if nothing was amiss. As expected, seconds later the sound of plodding heavy footsteps approached. A gruff voice snarled at him to get moving as they once more headed out of the caverns toward the roaring waves beyond.

~o~o~o~

The sun was beginning to show along the eastern horizon as Watson stumbled back toward his little alcove. The fire he had started had long since burned down to cold ashes. Too weary to bother, he curled up on the floor shivering and hoping the exposure would not have any lasting side effects. He vaguely recalled hearing voices shortly after, but was too tired to care. If they were wanting his attention, they had no problem coming over to kick him or prod him disdainfully with a boot tip. As the voices rose in volume coming closer, his heart froze in fear.

He knew one of those voices!

Memories of a dark alley waiting for a bullet to the back of his head flashed through his mind. Glad he had rolled his face toward the wall with his back outward, he prayed silently for them to pass him by without a glance. Unfortunately, the foppish, youthful voice took on a snarling tone that had everyone jumping into action. It was only seconds before someone was kicking him hurriedly in the back.

Watson prayed his filthy appearance and unshaven face were enough of a disguise. Rolling painfully to his feet, he did all he could to fall into line quickly with the others in the hopes of not drawing attention to himself. As everyone scurried to and fro making room for what must be a large haul of something they were expecting very shortly, Watson forced his weary body to keep pace. But as weeks of labor and little rest caught up with him, he stumbled to his knees with one crate of delicate goods in hand. Whatever was inside shattered resoundingly even amid the chaos all around him. For a moment, it was all he could manage just to push back the gray that edged around his vision.

When a fashionably dressed young man stalked toward him, others backed away. He kept his head bowed and hoped the hair would conceal his face. Sending a silent apology to Emily, he waited for his own punishment. Unexpectedly a boot impacted his left shoulder. Though he tried to bite back the curse that escaped his lips, he could not hide the pallor as all the blood drained out of his face. A moment later he was glaring balefully up at the young man who froze in mid-kick with shock.

He had been recognized!

Acting on pure instinct, Watson kicked out viciously. The young man screamed as his kneecap gave a sickening crack beneath Watson's boot heel. Feeling savage pleasure in this little demonstration, he made good use of the stupefied shock all around him as he rolled to his feet and began a dash toward the nearest cave mouth. Unfortunately, his worn down state even when supported with so much adrenaline, did not carry him very far or very fast. It was a matter of seconds before they had tackled him to the ground and beaten into unconsciousness.

~o~o~o~

Upon waking, Watson was glad to note he had not been beaten too badly. Apparently they had other, more pressing concerns. As he shifted his aching, cold stiffened limbs, he was surprised to note he was not bound. The answer to that came shortly after. When he opened his eyes in the dimly lit darkness, he found himself in a relatively sheltered alcove with only one way in or out. His leg was shackled to one wall and his arm to another. Though there was plenty of chain to move about the tiny space, there was nowhere he could go that others would not see. Some part of him was only dimly surprised to be alive at all.

But if they'd kept him alive, there was a purpose; of that much, he was certain.

His mind flailed miserably with his failure. He had not even managed to discover what it was they were supposed to be bringing that would be so terribly devastating. Likely as not, that fop's arrival signaled the arrival of that item. He had been one of the players in the London part of the organization. At the time, it seemed he had a level of sway over the others. It had felt to Watson as if it were his decision that had kept him alive at the time, more so than the others that had been present. And now he had failed. He failed to discover what it was. He failed to stop them. He failed to even avoid capture long enough to feel useful.

As he rested his throbbing head on the cool, stone floor he was almost glad Holmes didn't know. Vaguely he wondered where Holmes was now. At least now he understood why Holmes had not divulged his own plans. Some bitter part of his soul knew this was exactly why Holmes had left him in the dark on that part. Yet, in a way, it was oddly comforting to know his friend was not still trying to protect him by sending him away.

For a while Watson let his mind drift on these and many other dark thoughts. He wondered about Emily and hoped they hadn't punished her for this. The voices around him took on a sharper edge as they approached. Though he could not see around the corner of the entrance to this little alcove, he could tell by the rising light that those bearing torches were headed his way. A couple of minutes later he waited patiently for them to unlock the shackles and drag him bodily out of the little alcove. He simply didn't have the energy to fight anymore; not in such a meaningless way, at any rate. He would save his strength for other battles, if there were any.

Watson could not stop the shivering as his body betrayed him when they stripped off his shirt. They left him kneeling the in the center of a small cavern with only his trousers. Ropes were tied to his wrists and then thrown over hooks high in the walls. His arms were splayed out at his sides as she was dragged upwards until just the tips of his toes were still touching the rock beneath to take the pressure of his aching shoulders. Some part of his mind knew this did not bode well for him, but then nothing did in this situation. Better they stay focused on him than take it out on little Emily.

As a second group approached from another narrow entrance in this little maze of seaside caverns, he was only vaguely curious that they had not tied off the other ends of the rope. Apparently they weren't planning on leaving him like this, at least. For some reason, this did not comfort him in the least. Minutes ticked by as he watched the group file in and the foppish youth was carried in on a chair. Watson could not prevent the wicked smile at the sight of the massively swollen leg supported by countless bandages. If he guessed right, the man would never walk without a cane again; if he would walk at all.

The young man was drunk and obviously dosed with something. Watson recognized the glazed eyes even now as still hazed with fury. But it did not stop him from directing the gathered crowd. As the activity settled down and all eyes were on Watson, he continued to smile grimly. As there was no further need for disguise, he dropped his native accent and addressed the man.

"How's the leg?"

This was returned with snarls that impressed Watson for their ferociousness. So, the little brat still had some fight in him. It was some seconds before the young man calmed himself enough to address the purpose of this little show.

"Where is Holmes?"

"Dead."

"You lie!"

A man stepped around the group to take up a position behind Watson as he did not bother to answer this.

"Where is Holmes? What is he planning?"

"Dead."

As the first crack of the whip resounded through the cavern Watson found he was too in shock by the wave of pain to even cry out. The gasp was cut short by his own strangled breathing. He had known pain before. He had known many types of pain before. Nothing could have prepared him for the searing pain that scorched a line across his back. Heaving air through his nose, he clenched his jaw against the pain.

"You will tell us what he is planning. If you're alive, then so is he. And we _will_ find him. Where is he?"

"Dead."

Even prepared, Watson could not prevent the strangled cry that escaped his lips. It was an effort of will to keep his knees from folding beneath him. He refused to give them the pleasure. The questions persisted. Now he bit down and refused to answer at all. It was a matter of seconds before he found his shoulders crying painfully in protest as his knees refused to support him any longer. As the screaming began, he wasn't aware of anything that approached words. He could only pray he had not betrayed his friend.

~o~o~o~

An eternity later, he only became aware of his surroundings once more when he impacted the cold, stone floor. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered questions. He remembered screaming. He remembered the whip. His back was aflame with agony. Some distant part of him took stock of his injuries with the detached mentality of the doctor he had once been. He had screamed until there was no voice left, possibly damaged vocal chords. Though he could not confirm how much damage, it was likely his back was opened and bleeding in several places, even if they were shallow cuts. His shoulders were aching, but had suffered no permanent damage. In the fog of pain the voices around him penetrated the darkness beyond his closed eyelids.

"...will stop him. Send out word that we have Dr. Watson. Let him come to us."

"You don't think he's dead?"

"No. He's alive, and he will come to rescue his precious doctor friend here."

"The man was a drunkard. The way he acted, I'd say he—"

"I don't care what you think! If he's alive, so is Holmes! They are working together! He can't be far away. We have only five days before they get here. If anything goes wrong with the shipment afterward, you'll all die. Do I make myself clear?"

Watson was only mildly relieved to hear he had not betrayed Holmes. His mind was too occupied with the idea that Holmes was supposed to be on his way to meet him. He did not know when, but Holmes promised he would come. He would learn of Watson's capture and he was certain Holmes would come after him. Cursing himself for his failure, he could not find the strength to resist as they dragged him away to be shackled again in his makeshift cell.


	21. Chapter Nineteen

_**A/N: **Ack! This one feels horribly rushed, and it is. This is one chapter I will soooo be rewriting at the first opportunity. Nowhere near enough detail for my liking. But, I hope it gets the point across in the sense that I'm trying to keep the story moving and get this wrapped up before life takes me away completely for a while._

_**Riandra: **I told you I wouldn't keep you hanging on that one too long. lol  
_

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

Holmes was ready.

He was all but bouncing with anticipation as he concealed himself within the shadows across from the Scotland Yard offices. He barely felt the bitter cold of the November night air as he spied his Irregulars keeping guard in various places throughout the area. He was only waiting for Lestrade to give him the signal to move. The lights throughout the building indicated that all parties were present. After arranging this little meeting of every suspect he and Lestrade had managed to identify, he planned on taking them all down in one swift and silent maneuver. Afterward, he planned to take what he could learn and give it to Mycroft. With Mycroft's help, they might just be able to take out enough members of the organization to prevent their plans from going forward.

He still had not heard anything from Eyemouth. There had been no sign of Watson these past couple of weeks. While this unsettled him greatly, there was no way to determine if that was good or bad. For all he knew, Watson was doing his part to prevent the mysterious shipment of items meant to be so terrifyingly deadly as to threaten the whole of the British government. Once more, Holmes sent out a silent prayer for his friend's safety. Even after tonight, there was too much work to be done for him to spend too much time worrying about Watson. And, there was still a chance that if all of this worked, he might still be able to find his friend some day.

_Finally!_

Holmes sprang into action as the signal whistle was blown from a nearby alley. Swiftly he dashed through the shadows up to the Scotland Yard doors. As expected, the doors were left unlocked. He and Lestrade would be the first inside. Hearing the voices and movement on the floor above, he waited impatiently for Lestrade to catch up.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I'm glad you could join us."

Holmes stiffened at the sound of the voice in the shadows behind him. He didn't have to wait long, as the gas light was turned up as he turned to face that voice. Staring down the gun pointed directly at his chest, he eyed the unfamiliar man before him.

"I'm sorry, I believe you were waiting for Inspector Lestrade? He won't be joining us tonight. The last I saw of him, a handful of constables were carrying him out of the Dancing Duck. You would be surprised how that man can drink!"

Holmes' heart gave a lurch. He could feel all his masterfully laid plans crumbling around him. The man motioned with the gun. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he followed down the corridor into a larger room where several gathered Yarders were waiting. His eyes fell on the gagged form of Mrs. Lestrade, and Holmes knew what had happened. As Stuart stepped forward, obviously their spokesman, Holmes was relieved to see there had been no permanent damage done to the woman. He could not find it in himself to blame the little inspector for his betrayal.

"So, the great Sherlock Holmes is still haunting London," Stuart said, with some amusement. "That will make quite the ghost story for the little ones. You have been rather busy for a dead man."

Holmes felt no need to reply to these. "You have me, let Mrs. Lestrade go."

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes. It's not that easy. You really will die, this time. However, to keep Inspector Lestrade from interfering and to keep you from coming up with any inconvenient ideas, we're going to keep her with us. You must understand, we require absolute obedience. Inspector Lestrade took his time in reporting to us, recently. Now we will be teaching him a lesson with the help of his dear wife. As you can imagine, they'll not forget that lesson ever again."

Holmes frowned darkly. Stuart laughed, his voice still teasing.

"You really had no idea? This is grand! We've had Lestrade's cooperation for months now. It was wonderfully entertaining watching you three scheming, never realizing it was Lestrade leading you around by the nose. I will say, though, Dr. Watson's performance was excellent! He even had Lestrade convinced. For that matter, he had us all convinced."

Though gagged, Mrs. Lestrade was not bound. She stood with her head held high and proudly. Her eyes repeatedly caught Holmes' as if trying to convey some silent message. There was fear behind those eyes, but something more as well. Holmes was unable to make sense of it, and for now, he could not see how it would help. He had told Lestrade to get her out of the way. He had no idea then how the inspector had been manipulated. How much information had he given away to them to save his own wife?

"So Lestrade played both sides. Well done. If you would be so kind as to congratulate him for me when next you see him, I will be most grateful," Holmes commented casually.

Mrs. Lestrade's eyes flashed and her head wavered left and right so minutely Holmes almost thought he'd imagined it.

"Now, how shall we proceed, gentlemen?" Holmes asked.

He held no illusions that he would walk out of this. He only hoped Mrs. Hudson would be safe and the rest of his plan would proceed with the help of the Irregulars afterward. He had given instructions to all his co-conspirators as he planned for this eventuality. At least then, there might still be a chance of saving Mycroft and the rest of the British government from assassination and chaos.

"We are waiting for the final word that the secret meeting tonight at the Diogenes hosted by your brother has been taken care of permanently."

Holmes' blood ran cold.

"Yes, as a result of your little maneuverings, we've been forced to move accordingly," Stuart informed him gleefully. "While you thought you were taking control of the situation here at Scotland Yard, we made plans to eliminate half our targets tonight. After leaking information to your brother, he arranged for a meeting. Very similar to what you arranged here, incidentally."

Holmes couldn't find the words to speak. His failure was complete. Even as his mind spiraled through these thoughts descending into a dark despair so deep he did not think he could claw his way out, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. A note was passed around to Stuart, who smiled in satisfaction at the contents.

"It is finished," he informed Holmes. "The Diogenes and all its occupants will be nothing more than ash by morning."

Something inside Holmes' flared in a rare display of animalistic fury. As if sensing what was to come next, Stuart turned the gun on Mrs. Lestrade. "Your life may not be worth much, Mr. Holmes, as you are already dead. But what of the inspector's wife? Would you die with her blood on your hands?"

Still nearly blind with rage, Holmes attempted to reign in his temper. He need not have bothered. A moment later the building erupted into barely controlled chaos as dozens of uniformed Yarders and constables of all ranks flooded the building. Almost before the others could register what was happening around them, Holmes ducked under the level of the gun as it turned back in his direction. He planted his shoulder into Stuart's midsection even as his free arm grabbed for Mrs. Lestrade's. All three of them collapsed in a heap for a moment. Holmes was relieved a moment later that he had managed to take her down with them as the bullets and feet began to fly around them.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Holmes grabbed the woman and rolled into a corner out of the way. Not giving her a chance to recover, he wrapped himself protectively around her as he forced her down the hall and out of the nearest door. She struggled briefly to remove the gag as he propelled them down an alley. Spying a small group of his Irregulars, he pushed her in their direction.

"Take her to Mrs. Hudson!" he snapped. "Don't stop and don't be seen. Go in the back. Tell Mrs. Hudson to keep herself and Mrs. Lestrade safe."

"Sir!" snapped off one of the boys smartly, taking the trembling woman by the elbow.

"Wait!" she finally found her voice. Her face contorting in fury, she slapped Holmes soundly. "Don't you _dare,_ abandon my husband! You got him into this, Mr. Holmes! You find him! He sent those men to save _you,_ not me! He_ didn't_ betray you!"

Holmes ignored the stinging of his cheek as he forced his expression to soften. "I know, Mrs. Lestrade. I do not blame your husband. I only wish he had trusted me."

"He does. That's why I'm here. Go, find him. He was going to the Diogenes."

Holmes heart sank. He had little need of his vivid imagination to guess what the inspector had been doing. A moment later his feet had him flying down the alleys and darkened streets he knew so well. Silently he cursed the inspector. He could see the flames making the cold, foggy night glow. He was so focused on the flames and getting to the club that he failed to notice the half a dozen or so calls from the shadows as younger voices all around him shouted his name. Still several blocks away, a smaller hand grabbed his coat roughly to force him to a stop.

"Mr. Holmes!" Jacob shouted, only inches below his face.

It took Holmes' panic stricken mind a moment to catch up to what he was seeing and hearing. "Jacob," he said numbly. Jacob was supposed to be guarding Mrs. Hudson.

"Inspector Lestrade is this way," the boy tugged insistently on his coat. "Hurry, he doesn't have long."

Forcing his mind into some semblance of order, Holmes resumed his chase, this time following Jacob. He skid to a halt in the muck of one alley as he spied a darker form resting against the back of a building with one shoulder. His back exposed, Holmes could clearly see the burnt material that had once been his coat and suit. As he knelt down beside Lestrade, his nose caught the scent of the charred flesh beneath. With trembling hands he reached toward the inspector's relatively intact arm. Those deathly pale features and pain pinched expression told him the man was still conscious. Holmes wondered how he was even alive, let alone conscious.

"You're here," Lestrade said, with relief in his voice. "Cee?"

Gathering his scattered wits, Holmes only then was able to take in the rest of the man's injuries. The blood soaking through one side of the man's coat told Holmes all he needed to know. He forced back the swirling confusion of emotions at this sight. Of all the people he had come to know in his career, Lestrade had been one of the few constants in his life. The idea that he might...

"She's safe," Holmes assured the inspector. "The Irregulars are taking her to Mrs. Hudson."

He was rewarded with a brief smile. "Thank you."

Holmes had thought the man was going to lose consciousness then with sheer relief. He didn't have the heart to ask about Mycroft just now. Instead, Lestrade rallied his strength as he struggled to move at least one arm that wasn't either burnt or broken toward his inner coat pocket. Holmes prevented him from completing the move as he reached into the pocket for him. A small bundle of official, sealed documents in an envelope came out.

"From your...brother," Lestrade said, no longer able to open his eyes. "He said...go...tonight. Don't...wait for morning."

Slowly Lestrade slipped away with these last words. As he relaxed against the wall, Holmes tore off his gloves. He forced his hands to steady as his chilled fingers sought a pulse. It was there. Weak, terribly weak, but it was there. He knew it wouldn't be for long. Torn between his brother's instructions and wanting to find help for the inspector, he sat staring for a moment at the broken, burnt wreck of a man he had never dared admit to admiring for all his years with Scotland Yard.

Jacob's hand gripped his shoulder. "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. We'll take care of him."

For a moment Holmes' face resembled one of those lost children he had taken under his wings over the years. Finally he nodded. He watched helplessly as several of the older lads put together a makeshift stretcher and then moved Lestrade as carefully as possible. Once Jacob had given his instructions, he turned back toward Holmes with his head bowed as if in shame. He had been assigned to guard Mrs. Hudson. He knew he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Holmes could only hope that the others had followed the rest of their instructions. Before Holmes had a chance to address this issue, Jacob told him of the other events that had taken place earlier in the night.

Tired beyond words, Holmes absorbed this news. Jacob and the others had managed to get Mrs. Hudson out in time, but there had been little more that could be done for the house. The flames had begun on the second floor and spread swiftly. There had only been enough time to get Mrs. Hudson out the back and down the alleys to safety without being spotted. He and the other Irregulars had been unable to prevent the fire and still were not entirely sure how it had been started in the first place.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," Jacob finished, head still bowed.

Realizing what a burden these events of the last several months had been on this boy, his lieutenant of the Irregulars, Holmes forced his mind back to the present. Kneeling down to meet Jacob's eyes, he took the boy by the shoulders.

"Is Mrs. Hudson safe?"

Jacob nodded curiously, as if wondering if Holmes had been listening to him at all. "Of course, sir."

"Are the others unharmed?"

"I had them scatter to find help before I went in to get Mrs. Hudson," Jacob replied, his brow furrowing.

"You followed all my other instructions to the letter?"

"Of course, but Lestrade said you needed us here. I told the others to make sure everything was covered, just as you said."

"Then I see no reason for you to be ashamed. It was not your failure, Master Jacob. You performed admirably. I did not foresee all the events that have taken place tonight. You adapted to the situation and kept your head. It was more than I had any right to ask of you."

It took a moment for Jacob to absorb these words. Giving the lad a moment, Holmes rose to his feet again. The boy seemed at a loss for words. And, in the orange glow of the flickering fire nearby, Holmes could see the pride on his face. Showing him the respect he deserved, Holmes extended his hand. His face filled with something akin to wonder, Jacob shook his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

A moment later the others approached the end of the alley with their makeshift stretcher. Lestrade was groaning softly as Holmes stepped up to the man. He motioned for them to pause, as he bent down to whisper something in Lestrade's ear. Whatever it was he said, had the inspector cracking an eye open to stare at him through the pain-filled dark eyes. His lips curved into the barest hint of a smile as Holmes nodded his assurance. Lestrade gave an approximation of a nod in return before being carried off into the night.

Taking out the papers, his already pale face took on a deathly pallor at the contents. Within were sealed papers giving him the highest government authority. He had been given a task by his brother. Thanks to Lestrade, his brother had learned of tonight's plans and had moved accordingly. Taking in all of Mycroft's written instructions, Holmes once again marveled at his elder brother's cunning; even as he himself felt so small in all of this. However, he had no time to ponder these things, as his final set of instructions and information had him once more flying through the darkened streets of London praying he was not too late.


	22. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

Watson no longer knew day from night. He had no idea anymore how long he had been in this bleak hole. The shackles around his wrist and ankle had chafed until they bled. The fiery agony in his back had gradually dulled and become a crusted ache. He was thankful for no signs of infection, but the starvation and exposure to cold had left him too weak to do more than lay there now. Days had likely become weeks, and it was all he could do to ignore the shivering long enough to catch little naps.

He supposed he should be grateful for their lack of attention. They had left him here in this little alcove. Whatever it was they had been working on had kept them all busy enough to leave him alone. That worried him almost as much as he was relieved at not being treated to more rounds with the whip or worse.

That first day he had been left in a heap, curled in on himself on the floor of this little alcove. The barest whisper of movement had his eyes flying open in a near panic wondering if they had come back for him. Spying Emily peaking around the corner cautiously, he had shaken his head and motioned for her to go. She had disappeared back around the corner then. Satisfied that she would suffer no further damage for his failures, he closed his eyes once more.

His next gradual return to awareness was again to the sounds of her tiny feet approaching. This time she did not peak. He sighed tiredly and motioned for her to leave. When she shook her head and stepped forward with a bowl of water and some cloths, he shook his head vehemently. Flashing him a defiant glare, she screwed her face into a pout.

"You shouldn't be here, Emily," he finally said, tiredly. "It's not safe."

She said not a word as she proceeded to ignore him. He barely moved his head as she came around behind him to set the bowl down. Forcing his protesting limbs to respond to his commands, he pushed himself up trying to face her. Little girls should not be tending wounded men. And yet, he couldn't picture her with dolls or other toys either.

"Go. Leave it, if you insist. I will—"

With a mildly irritated look, she pushed on his left shoulder. The old wound combined with the recent strain had left it weak enough to collapse beneath him painfully. Obviously she had known where to strike to get the most effect, as he was forced to lie back down abruptly. Suppressing a groan of pain, he furrowed his brows angrily at her hoping to scare her off. Waving furiously with his other arm, he motioned once more for her to leave. Again she ignored him, dipping a cloth in the water and wringing it out. Her eyes wavered for a moment in barely suppressed fear as that hand waved about so near to her already battered face. Seeing her silent battle with fear and determination to help him, Watson could not silence the guilt that welled up. He had not wanted her to fear him.

"I won't hurt you," he said, finally flopping back down. "But you shouldn't be here, Emily. There's no way out that they won't catch you. They'll punish you."

Emily smiled sadly, those eyes still so full of life filled with concern for him. Watson's heart nearly broke at the understanding that she didn't care what they did to her, if it meant helping him. He cursed himself for not having the strength to force her to leave. More than ever, he wanted to hold her and take away that pain he saw behind those eyes that had seen too much. Seeing she had won the fight, she pushed him again more gently so that he would expose his back to her once more. For a moment Watson fought the sense that he had just been very cleverly manipulated.

Emily had cleaned his back thoroughly and gently with her little hands. The cold water had been soothing on the flaming trails that crisscrossed his back. When she was done she quietly slipped out of the room with the bowl and towels. He was almost disappointed to see her go, but glad to know she had not been caught and punished. She must have returned some time later, as he found himself covered in his old shirt. Ragged as it had been before, she had apparently washed and mended it. Careful of the wounds across his back, he wrapped it around himself. The shackle on his left wrist prevented him from actually putting it on. At least it provided something of a buffer between his chilled skin and the cold rocks beneath.

She did not return for quite some time, though Watson's concept of time rotated mostly around the demands of his body. When she did return, she had brought a meager amount of food and clean water. Though the smugglers had opted not to torture him further, they also had neglected food and water. Without water he would die in a matter of days. Knowing this food had likely been her own meal, Watson ignored the little bit of bread and cheese and drank only sparingly of the water. Her silent protests to this left her face furrowed with irritation that reminded him so much of his Mary his heart twisted. But the child was starving already; he would not take from her what she could not afford to give, no matter how well meaning her intention. When the silent argument had escalated to her stamping a foot and pointing angrily at the food, Watson gave up the gestures.

"You can hear me, and I know you understand me."

For a moment Emily hesitated, almost wary. Slowly she nodded.

"Can you speak?"

Emily's lips pressed into a thin line as her face paled. As if fearing retribution, she took a step back.

"It's alright, Emily," Watson assured her softly. "You don't have to speak, but I need you to listen to me carefully."

Slowly she nodded. Watson motioned for her to sit and she did so, as ever, keeping just beyond reach.

"This food is yours?"

Slowly she nodded.

"Do you know why it is so important for you to eat?"

She flashed him an irritated expression.

"I only need water to survive for now. I am healthy. I can go a little while without eating. You are growing and need food. They don't feed you enough as it is."

She slumped her little shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. Watson knew better.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

Her face became a blank mask he was so used to seeing when she faced the others as she prepared for some sickening torment they would inflict. He could not suppress the sigh that escaped him. He pointed to his own exposed torso.

"In here? It hurts?"

Cautiously she nodded.

"That's because you're hungry. Your body is telling you to eat. It feels better when you eat, doesn't it?"

She huffed a sigh and nodded with a frown of irritation. But then she pointed to him as if in question.

"Yes, it will hurt me too, eventually," he answered her question. "I know these things because I'm a doctor. Or rather, I _was _a doctor. Do you know what a doctor is?"

Emily shook her head, her irritation forgotten. Those knowledge hungry eyes stared at him in wonder, as if he had suddenly transformed into some incredible creature. He chuckled softly as he settled in for a long explanation. He was soon surprised as she grasped the concept quickly. Before long she was pointing to various body parts as he gave them their scientific name in return. At one point he coaxed her into eating her food by promising to continue only when she had eaten. Those eyes were wide with wonder and something in her expression at last revealed the little girl underneath those hardships he had endured. Loathe to end the moment, he continued until his mouth was dry and she forced him to drink the rest of the water. So far as he could tell, there was water aplenty stored in these caverns.

Watson watched as she excitedly retrieved the bowl before he even had a chance to set it down. She scampered out of the little alcove. He could almost wish she wouldn't come back. But she did return, minutes later, with a fresh bowl. She handed it over with a stern look as if commanding him to drink. She rubbed her tummy.

"It makes you feel better when you drink sometimes?"

She nodded excitedly.

"When they don't give you food?"

She nodded again. Watson smiled. "Thank you."

Emily curled up happily, this time much closer. He was still careful not to frighten her, but was pleased she felt comfortable enough to stay so close. The little game of naming body parts had ended, and she yawned tiredly a moment later. He knew she slept wherever she could find space when the others didn't need her. But he still didn't think it safe for her to be here with him.

"You should go."

The disappointment in those deep blue eyes was obvious.

"Emily, if they find you here, they'll hurt you. Please, go where you won't be found with me and get some rest."

Her shoulders slumped as she nodded slowly. Watson watched her walk away dejectedly. He knew it must feel like rejection to her, but he could think of no other way to protect her now. He wouldn't live much longer, though he appreciated her efforts. Silently he prayed that a miracle would happen and maybe she would be able to escape this one day before it was too late.

~o~o~o~

As the days came and went, Emily visited more often. Always she brought water, and sometimes she even pointed to random body parts just to hear more names. From time to time he would see her face scrunch in concentration as if trying to remember for herself. Though not a sound passed those lips, he pronounced each one slowly and clearly as if showing her how to say them for herself.

Eventually he had learned through gently probing questions and silent responses that she had once been able to talk. After days of intermingled questions and some storytelling of his own, he learned that the last words her father had said to her was a command of silence. He had told her to keep silent while she and her parents tried to hide from these same smugglers. They had murdered her parents in front of her and thrown their bodies over the cliffs and into the sea. For some unknown reason, one had taken pity on her and kept her alive as a slave. When he too, was murdered, she became a communal slave.

Now knowing the reason for her silence, his heart ached even more. He had suspected her parents had been murdered. But he had thought her silence for other reasons. This was her way of clinging to the last horrifying memories of her father. Though her whole body trembled with the terror of those memories, those eyes remained dry. Watson felt he could weep for her. Instead, he would cheer her once more with stories of his and Holmes' adventures. She never smiled, but those bright eyes widened with amusement and positively glowed when he told her some of Holmes' more embarrassing moments.

This helped to pass the time, and even take his own mind of things. As the days came and went, he continued to hope that Holmes would not try to rescue him. As the cavern was filled with voices all the time, he knew there were just too many. His body grew weaker from poor sleep and malnutrition as he struggled to keep warm enough to stay alive. At times he even wondered why he bothered. He was certain dying of exposure in his sleep was going to be more pleasant than anything the smugglers and their leader had planned for him. But all he had to do was take one look at little Emily to know why he did it. Her courage was enough to bolster his failing strength each day as he struggled to let her know he was alright.

Watson was once more struggling with all these dark thoughts when the sound of raised voices coming closer told him it was time. Summoning the last of his energy, Watson forced his trembling limbs to obey his commands as he used the rock wall behind himself for support. If he was going to die, at least he would do so on his feet. As expected, a handful of men had come with torches. A part of him was profoundly relieved not to see the whip.

"Hello there, Doctor," one of the unfamiliar faces greeted him brightly. "Looks like we won't be needing you anymore. We've got something special planned for you."

Watson refused to answer to these taunts. Stiffing his back, he forced himself off the wall. Despite his filthy, ragged appearance, he would die with at least his dignity. Before anyone had a chance to realize what was happening, Emily came out of the shadows with a knife almost as long as her arm. She launched herself at two of them stabbing in a wild, silent frenzy.

"Emily! Don't!"

But it was already too late. Two of the men were on the ground clutching leg wounds while a couple of others were dancing around the child trying to get at her. Watson launched himself forward, trying to join the melee. The shackles brought him up short as he struggled to reach her. She moved around to take a defensive stance between him and the rest of the men. Thrashing against the chains, ignoring the blood flowing from reopened wounds, he reached out with his one free arm. Snatching her right off her feet, he pulled her to him. She struggled wildly for a moment before realizing who it was that held her.

Watson had only enough time to curl himself around her on his knees to protect her little form before the blows began to rain down from all sides. Clutching her to his chest, he felt her little hands digging into the ragged remains of his shirt as she clung to him. He tried to whisper something, but could not find the breath to form words as booted feet and fists assaulted him from all sides. He refused to let her go. He would not let them have her.

"Daddy, please..."

These first whispered pleading words chased him into darkness.


	23. Chapter Twenty-one

_**A/N: **Fifteen hour work days and muses that will not let me rest until this is finished are going to drive me completely bonkers soon. Is there something wrong with me that I now dream Sherlock Holmes stuff? lol Not kidding here. I've lost it completely. _

_Almost done now..._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-one**

The sound of roaring waves filled Watson's ears. Little hands were clutching him and shaking him violently. The throbbing of countless new minor injuries assaulted his senses. But those little hands urging him to return to consciousness brought back images of a filthy, starving child that tugged at the back of his mind. Carefully he opened one eye. That same little girl was now frantically trying to force him into full wakefulness. Gently, he took one of her wrists in his hand.

"Emily..."

Rather than feeling reassured, she tugged on him more frantically pointing to something behind him. Forcing back the pain and weakness, Watson rolled partially to see what scared the poor child so. Somewhere along the way, his mind had already guessed where they were. He was not entirely surprised to see the swiftly rising water. Much as he desired to let unconsciousness take him, he still had Emily to consider. Concentrating all his remaining strength, he sat up crossing his legs and pulled her into his lap. He was not surprised to hear the clanking of the chain attached to a shackle that firmly encircled his left ankle. Visually following the chain, he spotted it securely mounted to a ring in the floor.

Watson held the trembling child close, lowering his head to rest his cheek in her hair. "I'm sorry, Emily."

Emily went very still in his arms. Her frantic breathing slowed, though her grip on his shirt did not lessen. As her trembling subsided, Watson began to wonder if she'd fainted. Pulling back slightly from her, she turned her head up to him. She was fighting to contain tears that threatened to escape her eyes. Watson's heart clenched painfully in his chest. He wanted to tell her she was allowed to cry, as he himself wanted to weep for her. As he reached to pull her close once more, she pushed violently away from him. He let her go as she turned away scrubbing her face, her little chest heaving.

The water had then risen over the lip of the little ledge and began pouring in around him. Watson shivered with cold. He had already calculated the temperatures and approximately how long it would take for hypothermia to set in. In these late-November waters, he might not have to worry about drowning once the chain had reached it's full length. The cold from the water would sap his remaining strength with terrifying speed. For little Emily, it would be even quicker. His shoulders slumping, he cursed himself for ever having shown the poor child kindness. Had he ignored her, she would not be here now. He let the freezing water wash over his legs as he sat, curling in on himself in misery.

Yet another precious child he cared for would soon die.

Seconds later the sound of a splash forced his eyes open as he looked around. Across the little cave, Emily was struggling back to her feet shivering and shaking after coming in contact with the cold water herself. With a look of frustration she shook herself and again attempted to climb the nearly sheer rock wall. Her little hands and feet managed to find foot and toe holds Watson could not even see in the gloom. Looking up, he could see a hole in the roof of the cave some twenty feet above.

Watching her desperately trying to climb, Watson felt his face flush with shame. Here he was giving up so easily and she was willing to keep fighting. Not caring if it was for her own life or his, her determination forced him to his feet. He did not get very far with the shackle around his ankle, but it was close enough to catch her as she fell yet again. She struggled immediately turning and pointing to the wall once more. Watson eyed the wall carefully. There was one section where it bent in such a way as to be at a negative angle to the wall. She would not be able to pass that.

"Just a moment," murmured, scanning more of the walls.

She settled immediately in his arms, still shivering. As the water rose to the level of his calves, Watson began to shiver all over again himself. He was not aware of this as his eyes desperately scanned the walls up to the open hole. Glancing back down at the chain, he began to formulate a plan. Emily could see that he was considering something and waited patiently until he turned his attention back to her. She cocked her head slightly in silent question.

"Emily, do you see that rougher rock up near the top?"

As she struggled to turn in his arms without hurting him, Watson shifted her upright and pointed. After a moment she nodded before turning back to him questioningly.

"I can get you up there. When the water rises high enough, I should be able to push you up there. You can climb out and—"

Her sudden and violent head shaking was quickly followed by her two little fists pounding painfully on his chest. Even now, she refused to abandon him. Holding her close to his chest, Watson murmured into her hair until she began to calm once more.

"Please, Emily. I need you to do this for me. You can escape. Remember the stories I told you, about Mr. Holmes and the Irregulars?"

Her tiny chest heaved once more as she fought to hold back her tears. But eventually she did nod against his chest.

"You won't make it all the way to London, so don't try. There's a city to the west called Edinburgh. Do you know how to find west?"

Emily's breath hitched in her chest as she nodded once more miserably. Watson smoothed her hair tenderly. "Good girl, Emily. When you escape, you can go to Edinburgh. You might find children there, like the Irregulars. Maybe even a family. And if you ever find Mr. Holmes, you can tell him I sent you."

Now her shoulders shook with silent sobs. As the water continued to rise up to the level of his thighs, Watson began walking little circles. He needed to keep his muscles from seizing as he would need to tread water until they were high enough he could boost her upward. He gently rubbed her back and sang old lullabies he had once sung to his own children. Though she wept bitterly into his shoulder, he was surprised by the sense of hope that now flooded him. Beyond the blinding anger at the injustice of her innocence so brutally destroyed, there was an almost serene peace building. If he could accomplish this one thing, he would be able to face his own wife and children satisfied. At least maybe there would be a chance for this little girl. He prayed to God to let this one miracle happen.

In his weakened state, it wasn't very long before he was stumbling. As the water passed his hips, Emily at last began to calm. Needing to keep her above the level of the frigid water so she would not succumb to the effects of hypothermia, he lifted her slightly. For a moment she refused to look at him. He lifted her chin until he met those pain filled eyes. He so desperately wanted to erase that pain.

"Please, Emily. I need you to do this for me. I know you can."

Though her face crumpled again as she fought back another wave of tears, she nodded once more. Her face was a mask of misery that seared his soul.

"Good girl. Now, I'm going to put you on my shoulders to keep you out of the water."

Emily helped him as much as she could to settle on his shoulders. She held onto his head gently as the water continued to rise to his chest. Pushing his way through the water with as much force and energy as he could muster, Watson forced himself to ignore the first effects of hypothermia. Focusing only on the task he had set himself, he began to tread water. As his feet could no longer feel the ground, he prayed his strength would hold out. The cavern, the walls, the water, everything faded in and out of existence as he struggled to keep Emily as far above the water as he could manage. Whenever he remembered, he would rub and chafe her feet knowing she would need the feeling in them to climb.

More than once his vision began to narrow to nothing more than the wall he was aiming for and the hole above. On some occasions Emily would take hold of his hair and pull gently to gain his attention. He had begun talking at one point just to keep himself focused. His sluggish mind no longer knew what he said. Vague recollections of Mary and his children danced in his mind. Eventually the water began to rise and he did not. Though he could no longer feel his legs, he knew he must have reached the length of the chain. Praying he still had enough strength, he took her by the waist.

"You can do this, Emily. I'm going to push you up. Just grab that wall. Keep going. Don't look back."

Watson was amazed at how steady his voice and hands had become. Now certain in his own mind, he heaved and lifted her as high as he could toward the wall. His shoulder screamed in protest at the maneuver. But as he sank below the level of the water briefly, he felt her weight lifted. She did not fall back with him. Watson forced himself back to the surface one more time. Even as the water rose up his neck, he watched her all the while praying desperately she would not slip.

Emily was almost to the level of the hole when a pair of arms suddenly reached down to haul her up. Watson's heart stuttered in terror. He should have known they would be up there waiting. He had just given her back to them. What torment would she suffer for this?

_God, please no!_

"No! Emily!_ Emily!"_

"Watson!"

For a moment Watson froze, only remembering to keep his head above the water level after he had begun to choke.

_It_ can't_ be!_

Blinking the salt water from his eyes, Watson wondered at the hallucination that now stared down at him from the hole above. It was little more than a dim outline, but he would know that silhouette anywhere. His chest constricted painfully, not daring to believe this was anything other than a hallucination conjured by his sluggish mind.

"I've got a rope—"

Watson finally found the wits to shout back. "It's too late. I'm shackled. Help Emily. She needs—"

Whatever else he was about to say was cut off as the water rose the last few inches to cover his face. Watson did not choke or try to fight. The frigid water had done its work. He felt only peace and warmth as the darkness swallowed him.


	24. Chapter Twenty-two

_**A/N: **As always, a great big thank you goes out to all those who have read and reviewed! _

_**Guest: **If you are still reading this, thank you for your honest feedback on Chapter Twenty-one. I had not noticed a trend in that direction in this fandom. It was not meant to be cliché, but she suits the needs of the story going back around to the Part I. I'm sorry if that has disappointed you, and I do hope you found the rest of the story worth the read. :)_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-two**

Holmes had already forgotten the little girl he had pulled out of the hole. As he watched Watson sink beneath the black, inky water his only thought was for his friend. He hesitated only long enough to shed his shoes and coat and ensure his ever-present lock picking kit was secure. Mentally preparing himself for the shock of the cold water, he aimed a little to the side of where he had last seen his friend. Almost immediately he grasped an arm. He checked the wrist, no shackle. Quickly he moved to the other arm and found the same. The lack of response from Watson was a terrifying distraction that had him cursing silently as he worked his way down.

Finally he found the metal band. In the absolute darkness beneath the icy water, he prayed his delicate sense of touch would keep functioning. Forcing his hands to comply, he focused on the one thing he could do. For a time nothing existed but those tiny shards of metal that were now so very precious to him and that lock. Only when he felt the desired click did he feel the burning in his lungs once more as they screamed for air. He had no idea how far he and Watson had sunk by that point, and it didn't matter. Placing a shoulder into Watson's midsection, he kicked for the surface.

Gasping for air and pushing back the darkness that edged around his vision, Holmes pushed them both toward the nearest wall. Keeping his shoulder firmly planted he shoved as hard as he could. He nearly went limp with relief as Watson gagged and coughed weakly. Those glazed, green eyes tried to flutter open and failed. His blue lips trembled and twitched as if trying to speak between coughs that were growing stronger.

"Em...ly," Watson finally managed between wet, thick coughs.

"She's above—"

Holmes flinched nearly losing his grip on Watson's shoulders as a coil of rope smacked him soundly in the head. Looking up, the little girl was waving frantically. One look at Watson convinced him the man was in no condition to climb. He had no idea how she had managed to secure the rope. As she had yet to utter a word, he could only hope she wasn't deaf as he turned back toward her.

"Did you tie it around something?" he asked.

The girl nodded emphatically pointing at Watson. He wasn't quite sure what she was trying to tell him, but he wasn't about to leave his friend down here a minute longer than necessary. Her wild gestures were unnecessary in his mind. He knew they could not be pulled up, and he would not be able to climb the rope himself without leaving Watson below. The man was in no condition to support himself. Swiftly his mind formulated a plan, but it would be at least partially dependent on Watson. Seeing his friend sinking back into unconsciousness, Holmes slapped him roughly. This, at least, had the man gagging and retching once more even as the eyes pinched more firmly shut.

"Watson!" he snapped, angrily. "Listen to me! You have to open your eyes."

As his friend struggled to breathe, but did not comply, Holmes slapped him again. Shaking him roughly, he forced the man to open his eyes.

"That's better. We have to get out of here. I can't do that without you."

Those glazed, distant green eyes slowly focused on Holmes' face. Holmes pointed toward the rope, and then upward as Watson slowly tracked the movement of that hand.

"She needs you, Watson. And I need your help if I'm going to get out of here to help her. Do you understand?"

For several seconds Watson only stared, as if not recognizing his surroundings. Holmes shook his shoulder painfully again. The pain seemed to help bring him back to the present.

"Watson!"

Watson blinked several times before those eyes finally began to show some recognition. Turning back toward Holmes, he nodded slowly. Holmes sighed with relief.

"Good man. I'm going to climb up and then pull you out," Holmes explained, taking Watson's wrist. "You have to stay awake. I need you to anchor the rope. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Watson whispered, his eyes again straying toward the hole above and the little girl waving frantically down at them. "Yes," he repeated a moment later as if trying to convince himself.

Holmes pulled Watson's good arm above their heads. He looped the rope around it several times and then forcefully closed his his friend's hand around it. The numb fingers struggled to remain secure around the rope. With hands shaking violently from the cold he desperately tried to ignore, Holmes ducked beneath the water to loop the loose end of the rope around his friend's chest and tie it securely. Praying these knots tied with nearly numb hands would hold, he came back up to the surface.

Watson was again struggling to keep his eyes open, coughing wetly from time to time as he forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. Holmes again forced those eyes to meet his. This time there was a little more clarity, but he seemed so very tired.

"Just hold on, dear friend. I will get you out," Holmes promised, gripping Watson's shoulder one more time.

Watson tried to twitch a reassuring smile with blue, numbed lips as he nodded slightly. As if to show Holmes he could do this, he forced his other arm above the water to grip the rope. Still uncertain about leaving Watson even for this few minutes, Holmes turned his attention to the task at hand. Battling cold, aching muscles he forced his hands to grip the rope. The climb, though swift, felt like it had taken an eternity. He refused to stop or look back for fear he would dive back down to his friend. That loop of rope around the wrist would not be enough to keep his head above water if he lost his grip.

The little girl backed away several steps staring at him fearfully as he clawed his way out of the hole. Ignoring her, he turned back to the hole. The pale, pain drawn features of his friend's face several feet below began to relax once more seeing that both his charges were up above and safe. Holmes grabbed the rope and tugged viciously a couple of times.

"Watson!"

Again Watson's head jerked back upward as his bound hand spasmed once more trying to grip the rope. Seeing that he had his friend's attention, Holmes stood and backed up a little. Praying he had the strength, he gripped the rope in both hands and began to slowly haul it upward. Not able to watch what was going on below the rim of the hole, he watched as the little girl crept back toward the hole to watch anxiously. She laid flat and reached toward the darkness below. Growling to himself Holmes silently assured her. His arms shaking with fatigue and cold, Holmes leaned backward as he continued to pull desperately. It seemed like hours before a hand finally appeared, with the rope wrapped around it cutting off circulation. Finally the weight began to lift as Watson struggled to pull himself the rest of the way. Not daring to release his grip, Holmes continued to pull.

Holmes watched as Watson crawled unsteadily forward a few feet away from the rim as the little girl—_Emily,_ he reminded himself—tugged on his arms urging him forward. Releasing his grip on the rope, Holmes fell to his knees beside Watson. The man continued to cough sporadically as Emily wasted no time wrapping her arms around his neck gripping him fiercely. This seemed to bring Watson somewhat out of his stupor as he sat up wrapping his arms around her.

"It's alright, Emily," he soothed her gently.

Holmes wondered that the shaking girl still made no sound, but filed it away for later as he cut the ropes away and covered them in his coat. A thousand questions flitted through those green eyes as Watson looked up at him.

"Later," Holmes said, trying to haul Watson to his unsteady feet. "You have to move. We have to get you warmed up. We can't stay here. They'll likely come back to check before long. There's a town about three miles from here."

Watson's bluish white face seemed to take on a considering expression. He tightened his grip on Emily and shifted her slightly as he nodded. Somewhere in the back of his mind the call of sleep still pulled at him, Holmes was certain. But so long as the man had a duty, especially to another, he would push himself to the brink of death. Holmes made no move to remove the child from his friend's unsteady grip as she continued to keep her face buried. Retrieving his shoes, he turned to lead back in the direction he had come from earlier.

In the darkness, traversing the rocks was slow and dangerous. He kept his pace down to something Watson could follow, but refused to let the man out his sight for more than a few seconds. That lingering wet, feeble cough worried him. But Watson continued to shift Emily as she grew heavier. As the first light of false dawn began to tint the horizon over the ocean, they finally reached land that was easier for the three of them to traverse. Along the way Watson had begun shivering violently. Based on his limited knowledge and previous experiences, Holmes thought it a good sign. But he knew Watson was only wearing himself down faster by trying to cling Emily.

When Watson staggered to his knees gasping and shivering, Holmes joined him with a supporting hand on his shoulders. He was glad to see some life had returned to those still too-pale features as they twisted in grim determination.

"We need to keep moving," he prodded gently. "Let me take Emily."

He had thought the little girl was asleep by that point. But as her little ears caught this suggestion she wrapped her arms around Watson's chest in desperation. For a moment Watson seemed startled. Then something seemed to spark behind those tired eyes. Ducking his head, he whispered too low for Holmes to hear. A moment later those blue eyes focused on him as if scrutinizing every inch. When she turned back to Watson and cocked her head slightly, Holmes was happy to hear the man chuckle softly instead of another cough.

"Yes, he is," Watson agreed to her unspoken question, a grin lighting his face.

Emily flicked a hand signal that Holmes could not quite make sense of that had Watson laughing outright a moment later. This, unfortunately ended in another wet cough, he stifled in his shoulder. Still obviously amused, he eyes Holmes for a moment before whispering something in her ear once more. She seemed startled by whatever it was he'd told her, but turned to eye Holmes once more with more consideration. Apparently she made her decision, though, as she turned back to Watson with a quick, decisive nod.

"You'll see," Watson reassured her as he shifted his position to hand her over.

Having waited out this exchange, Holmes had to put his impatience to the back of his mind as he carefully maintained an encouraging smile. Though she stiffened at the contact, he was careful to shift her to his hip where she would be more easily carried. She helped tremendously by maintaining a careful grip on his shoulder while Watson struggled to his feet once more. With one arm around his friend and the other around Emily, Holmes propelled them forward once more.


	25. Chapter Twenty-three

_**A/N: **Oh blast it all! I've come so far in this, and now I don't want to see it end. Besides, I don't like feeling so rushed here at the end. Mrs. Hudson insists that it works. Holmes and Watson are too busy with Emily to argue too much at this point. They got what they wanted and now they're done with me, it seems. lol I feel so used..._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-three**

Watson's next clear recollection was almost a full day later. His last memories within the little tidal cave were blurry at best. There had been something about Holmes and Emily...

_Emily!_

His sleep-fogged mind suddenly focusing on his surroundings, he realized he was in a bed. Though sunlight streamed through the window, it was still very chilly. He was covered in several layers of blankets. Still rather filthy and wearing little more than rags, he shifted slightly. A secondary movement beside him resulted in an equally filthy head of blond hair popping out from beneath the layers of blankets. As those sleepy blue eyes focused on him, Watson began to relax as he smiled down at her.

"Good morning, Emily."

"Good morning," she replied shyly.

Watson's smile rivaled the sun for its brilliance. "You have a beautiful voice."

Emily's face flushed scarlet to her hair. "Daddy said I should stay quiet until it was safe. Mr. Holmes says we're safe now."

Still smiling brightly, Watson struggled to a sitting position as he pulled her into his lap. "You're not alone anymore. And I promise no one will ever hurt you like that again."

She curled into his lap against his chest, as if burrowing for warmth as she nodded. She still seemed uncertain about using the voice she had denied for so long. Watson knew this was not going to be easy for either of them. But now that she was talking, maybe there was something he could do to help her. Before he had a chance to pursue these thoughts, a gentle knock on the door alerted them to Holmes' return. Somewhat curiously, Emily tugged at the blankets as if trying to hide beneath them.

"Ah, Watson," Holmes greeted brightly. "Finally awake, I see."

"How long?"

Holmes waved impatiently. "A little more than a day. I imagine you're still in need of much more rest, but I had hoped you could talk some sense into the little one."

Cocking his head curiously, Watson turned his eyes down to the little quivering bundle in his lap. She seemed to want to burrow into him and away from Holmes. He knew Holmes was not the most practiced and had a tendency to treat children much the same as he did most adults. Emily didn't seem afraid, but something else...

"Emily?" he finally prompted softly.

Slumping her shoulders as if in defeat, she refused to look at him.

"She refuses to leave your side. Even food will not tempt her away and my attempts to see her bathed were less than productive."

The slight hint of red that colored his friend's pale features made Watson bite back a grin. Taking Emily gently by the chin, he turned her face upward to meet his eyes.

"Is that true?"

Her lips quivered as she nodded. "I'm sorry," she finally whispered. "I didn't mean to—to..."

Watson caught Holmes' subtle gesture out of the corner of his eye as he covered a bandage peeking out beneath his cuff. Catching on to where this was going, Watson raised a questioning eyebrow. Holmes' face flushed nearly as scarlet as Emily's this time.

"She bit me," Holmes snapped, less out of anger and more in embarrassment.

Choking back laugh, Watson schooled his face to seriousness as he turned back to the trembling bundle in his arms.

"Emily, do you remember me telling you those stories about Mr. Holmes?"

She nodded, still not daring to look up.

"Do you remember me telling you I trust him?"

Again she nodded, seeming to relax with the memories.

"Do you trust me?"

This time her face shot up with an expression of mixed fear as she frantically nodded.

"Good. Then as long as we're together, you will obey Mr. Holmes as you would me. You can trust him as I do. He would not hurt you any more than I would. Do you understand?"

Biting her lip, still uncertain, she finally gave her assent.

"Then, I believe you owe Mr. Holmes an apology."

Emily's face crumpled miserably. But, she recovered quickly and shifted in his arms. As if summoning all the courage she possessed, she wriggled out of his lap and off the bed. Not wanting to seem too terribly intimidating, Holmes met her half way by crouching down to her level. Watson knew that look, though. It was the same defiant look she gave when she knew she was about to be punished most harshly. Her bravery astounded him, even as it tugged at his heart.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said sincerely, obviously struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Apology accepted, Miss Emily," Holmes said solemnly, ignoring her flinch as he patted her gently on the shoulder.

As if stunned she had not received worse, she stared at those gentle gray eyes for a moment before turning to leap back into the bed beside Watson. By this point, Watson had thrown his legs over the side as if debating whether or not he was ready to try for his feet. Emily practically bowled him over again as she wrapped a blanket around herself and dove back into his lap.

"Good girl," Watson assured her. "Young ladies don't behave that way, and Mr. Holmes is only trying to help. Besides, he's right. We could both use a bath."

"I've taken the liberty of having the matron of this quaint little establishment collect some clothes for Miss Emily and I believe I have found some that would suit you until we reach Edinburgh," Holmes informed him as he rose to his feet. "The rest we can discuss later. For now, I will see to some food and a bath for Emily."

Emily still clung to him almost painfully. Something in the back of his mind sparked a thought at that moment as he reached down trying to shift her to a place that wasn't covered in bruises. Feeling her rapid heartbeat and panicked breathing beneath his hands, he confirmed his suspicions. Flicking a glance from Holmes to the door, he waited until they were alone.

"Emily."

She shook her head, refusing to let go or look up.

"Are you afraid?"

She nodded into his ribs. Gently prying her arms off of him, Watson lifted her until she was sitting facing him. "Is it the water that scares you?"

Trembling all over in his grip, she nodded. Her hands flashed in a series of gestures as she reverted for a moment, lost in her terrifying memories. Those blue eyes flashed defiantly as he tried to master the tears that threatened to spill. At first Watson didn't understand, but when those hands flashed toward the back of her head he found himself resisting the urge to return to that cave and...

Grinding his teeth to master himself, Watson forced her eyes to meet his. "I promised no one would ever hurt you like that again, and I meant it. Mr. Holmes and I will help you. But, for now, you have to trust us."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," he assured her gently. "But you_ do _have to take a bath. Come, I'll help you. Do you remember bath time with your mother?"

For a moment her face fell in sadness as she remembered her life before those caves. Watson hated himself for doing this, but he would need her to remember sooner or later if he was going to be able to help her find her remaining family. He waited until she recovered herself enough to nod.

"Then you should remember that it's not so bad," he said decisively.

Picking her up, he was rather surprised by how easily he was able to regain his feet. After the events of the last few weeks, he had expected to be much worse off. He hurt everywhere, and the idea of a long soak in a hot tub sounded divine. But first he would see to Emily. Carrying her still clinging to his neck, he sought out Holmes and this promised bath. The scent of breakfast food made his mouth water. Beside him, he could hear Emily's stomach growl audibly in response. Swiping a couple of biscuits off a tea tray, he handed them to her while he headed toward the indicated bathing room.

~o~o~o~

A remarkably short time later, Emily came darting back into the room where Holmes was just setting out an amazing array of breakfast food. He very nearly dropped the plate of toast he had been shifting when a brightly dressed bundle of wet blond curls latched itself to his knees. Staring down in amazement at those wondrously blue eyes, he was pleased to see her smiling happily.

"Miss Emily, you're looking much better. The clothing meets your approval, I take it?"

She nodded enthusiastically, beaming a smile once more. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes!"

Patting her gently on the head, he looked up just as a still ragged but satisfied Watson closed the door behind himself. He nodded toward the breakfast Holmes had just put out for them. Holmes nodded, as Watson turned to gather some things before retreating back to the bathing room.

"Now, Miss Emily, I can imagine you are quite hungry by now. Would you do me the honor of joining me for breakfast?"

"Yes, please," she replied slowly, as if only just remembering the correct words.

Pleased that she seemed to have been taught at least some manners, Holmes carefully set her in a chair that seemed ridiculously too large for her tiny frame. She cocked her head in disappointment as the table seemed about at a level with her eyes. After considering for a moment, Holmes retrieved some of the dirty blankets from the bed and folded them neatly, making the perfect cushion for her. Smiling once more, she eagerly waited while Holmes placed a variety of the food on the plate and set it in front of her.

"Be careful not to eat too much," Holmes warned. "Dr. Watson would not want you to make yourself sick after not eating for so long."

Carefully manipulating her flatware as if only vaguely familiar with them, Emily flashed a smile. She then nodded solemnly before turning her attention to the plate. Conversation dropped off at that point to little more than instructions on table manners as Holmes ate some himself to show her. The food was long cold by the time Watson finally reappeared. Seeming much more refreshed, he appeared almost embarrassed as he was carrying the jacket to the little country suit folded over his arm.

Holmes understood in an instant. He had seen the crisscrossing of new scars and welts across his friend's back and had tried to find something comfortable that would not irritate them too much. However, in taking that into account, he had not realized how much muscle his friend had built up these recent weeks. He was looking much more himself than Holmes could remember since before the days at Reichenbach Falls.

"Shoulders?" Holmes asked, already knowing the answer.

Watson's mustache twitched slightly in a grin as he nodded. Meanwhile, Emily had lost all interest in her tea as she stared wide-eyed. To her, this was a completely different man. Catching sight of her expression, Watson approached slowly to and knelt down in front of her.

"Hello, Emily. I'm _Dr. _Watson."

She cocked her head questioningly before reaching out to pat his smooth, clean-shaven cheeks. A moment later she twitched her hands back as he bristled his mustache at her. The impish grin and glint in those green eyes showed Holmes how very much Watson was enjoying teasing the little girl. Though he was enjoying the display, his heart ached for his friend. A moment later she nodded as if approving of his appearance, making Holmes snort in amusement.

"You always did know how to turn a pretty head, Watson," Holmes stated innocently.

Watson laughed softly turning into a muffled cough a moment later as he took his own seat at the table. Watson ate sparingly while Holmes enjoyed another cup of coffee. Obviously he had numerous questions, but was not about to start that conversation with Emily present. Having long since finished her breakfast, the child sat occupying herself quietly. It was not the first time he had met a child perfectly capable of being so quiet and still while trying not to be noticed. While he considered what their next move would be, Emily answered one question on her own. She struggled to stifle a yawn as her eyelids drooped. Moments later Watson found himself doing the same.

It didn't take much convincing from Holmes to get them both settled on the sofa in the next room, as the sheets and blankets would all need to be washed. He was profoundly grateful for Mrs. McMillan's understanding nature. She had only to take one look at Watson and the little girl he was once again carrying that morning in the near-freezing November temperatures to make the upper rooms of her quaint little tavern available to them. She had not used or rented them in some years, and had not been expecting guests at the time, not even paying guests. Despite her protests, Holmes had paid her very well for the use of the rooms and for her silence.

For the first day Watson had slept soundly with Emily curled up in the bed beside him. It was late into the day before his shivering had finally ceased and his breathing to even out. Though Holmes had watched over them both for most of the morning and early afternoon, he was still concerned that the cough would turn into a fever and only grow worse from there. As Watson had yet to show any significant side effects of his recent trials, Holmes had grown somewhat more confident in his friend's resilient nature.

Once he was certain neither Emily nor Watson would be in any danger, he had slipped out to send some telegrams back to London. He was relieved to learn that Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Lestrade had escaped the attempt on the rooms at Baker Street with the help of the Irregulars, and remained safely hidden away. Yet again it seemed that the house was going to be in need of some repair as the fire had damaged a significant portion of the sitting room and upper floor this time. The ruckus had apparently caught the attention of several neighbors who were less than pleased to learn that activity once again surrounded those previously peaceful rooms.

_Lestrade,_ Holmes thought sadly.

The Irregulars had done just as they promised and taken the inspector to a hospital. The man had placed himself between the attackers and Mycroft's meeting members to buy some time for them to use a secret exit. Of the three that had joined him, only Lestrade held any hope of surviving. The bullet had shattered a rib just below the shoulder. He had been caught in the inferno trying to escape and suffered burns that made even Holmes shudder to contemplate. If he survived, he would be a long time in healing. Though Holmes did not have full and detailed report, he had heard enough at this point to know he owed the man a debt. Without his help, neither Holmes would have survived that night.

The telegram he had received in return from Mycroft had been short and terse. He knew his elder brother would likely not be pleased with him for this most recent deception. However, he had shown something of forgiveness already in what he had left for Holmes with Lestrade. The information contained much that would decide both his and Watson's futures. And, it had already served to save Watson's life. Without the knowledge from an agent within the group of smugglers, he would not have found his friend in time. The marker left at the rim of that hole in the rocks had almost not been enough as it was. Until he had seen that little girl's hand, he had not been certain he was at the right location. He suppressed another shudder as he recalled how close of a rescue it had been.

_A few more minutes and..._

Holmes crushed this thought ruthlessly. It was over. It was almost all over now. There was much to decide upon, but he would not make these decisions without Watson. For now, his friend and Emily needed their rest. Later they would make their way to Edinburgh where they would much more easily disappear than within this little village.


	26. Chapter Twenty-four

**Chapter Twenty-four**

Holmes entered the sitting room of their little flat in Edinburgh to find Watson watching the snowfall outside the window. This image reminded him somewhat painfully of the last time he had caught his friend at this activity. Once more the Christmas holiday was swift approaching. Though there seemed less sadness in his friend's features, it was still there. Perhaps, in some ways, it had become more pronounced.

Emily was curled up in front of the fire asleep with a blanket wrapped around her. A small nest of pencils and journals Watson had purchased for her were stacked neatly nearby. Obviously Watson had been teaching her how to write. She had caught him writing in a journal and was enthralled instantly. As if watching him perform a magic trick just for her, he had read bits and pieces as she pointed to the words excitedly. Immediately she had begged to be taught. Holmes had thoroughly enjoyed his turns with her, as she was an exceptionally fast learner and often more observant than most children he had encountered.

"Still no word?" Watson asked, softly, never turning away from the scene outside the windows.

"I'm sorry, Watson."

He watched Watson's shoulders slump further as he nodded dejectedly. They had taken these rooms shortly after their arrival in Edinburgh, as their future seemed uncertain. Holmes had outlined Mycroft's plans for them, and Watson had listened consideringly. While the option to return to London was foremost in Holmes' mind, he knew Watson would not leave until he had settled Emily for himself. Watson had not openly stated his decision, yet; but had offered Holmes to return without him. This he had waved off impatiently, informing Watson he was much in need of a holiday. Watson had nearly laughed at this.

However, with the holidays approaching swiftly, Watson's search for living relatives of the little girl they knew as Emily Bell took on a more desperate feel. There was no doubt in Holmes' mind that his friend loved that little girl, and it hurt to see his friend forced to maintain his distance. He still held some hope that someone would miss her. As the days passed and they could find no information about her parents or any living relatives, Watson had begun to consider their alternatives. Holmes hated to see him wrestling with himself in such a way.

"Watson."

"Please, Holmes. Just...don't."

Holmes sighed heavily. Watson knew him too well. He knew it had to be Watson's decision. But it felt like abandonment, nonetheless. Until Watson was ready to speak, there was little he could do for his friend. Letting the argument drop, he pocketed the list of orphanages and institutions for a later time. Joining his friend by the window, he sat himself in a nearby chair as they sat in companionable silence.

~o~o~o~

"He is asleep. He needs his rest."

"Miss Emily, I insist you—"

Watson opened his bedroom door having heard the beginnings of this argument moments before. The sight of Holmes being blocked by a child half his size amused him to no end. Emily had proven she had a protective streak where Watson was concerned and was not afraid to show it. Having learned that Holmes really was trustworthy, she then set to establishing her limits.

"Emily," Watson said sternly, earning a flush from the little girl, "May I ask what is going on here?"

Emily rushed over to wrap her arms around his legs. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. He wanted to wake you up. I know you didn't sleep last night and—"

Watson held up a hand to slow her torrent of words. "It's alright, Emily. Mr. Holmes knows when it's important enough to wake me. I wasn't getting much sleep anyway."

Emily nodded as Watson patted her shoulder.

"I need to have a word with you, Watson," Holmes informed him, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Concerned, Watson nodded indicating Emily. Holmes shook his head minutely. Though Watson could detect no serious concern, Holmes appeared in earnest about something. With Christmas only two days away, he could not imagine what would have Holmes seeming so...excited. He sent Emily off to her room down the hall as he followed Holmes back to the little sitting room that had, thus far, only served to make him miss their rooms on Baker Street all the more.

"I've received some information, though it is not in regards to Miss Emily's family," Holmes stated, indicating Watson should take a seat as he sat himself in a chair across from the sofa.

Watson complied, taking the cup of tea Holmes had handed him. Waiting impatiently, Watson watched as Holmes took up several sheets of paper and some telegrams. For a moment, Holmes almost seemed uncertain. With a sigh, he set the papers aside on the table and took up his own cup.

"Watson, have you considered that Miss Emily may not have any family in the area?"

"Of course I have," Watson frowned, not liking where this conversation was going.

"And you dislike the idea of an orphanage or other institution?" Holmes prompted.

"She has been through much, Holmes. She needs a family, people who can help her through the memories and experiences. She still stands every chance of growing up and leaving all of this behind her, but not without help."

"Define family."

Watson blinked in confusion. He wasn't quite certain anymore what point Holmes was trying to make. Finally his expression settled on something bordering on exasperation as Holmes grinned knowingly. This made Watson pause again as he reconsidered his own family. For him, Holmes was his brother, though he'd never stated as much openly. His parents had not been the best, but at least he had had them. And his own brother...

"A wise woman once told me that your attentions are not exclusive."

Now seeing where this was going, Watson sat back on the sofa consideringly. His gaze grew unfocused as he recalled with only a hint of sorrow his beautiful wife and children once more. And on today of all days that Holmes should—

"No."

Holmes sighed, having expected this. "Shall it be the rational or the irrational arguments that I must address first?"

Startled, Watson brought his gaze back to Holmes. Those green eyes glittered in warning as Holmes sat impassively.

"Very well, then. We shall start with the irrational—"

"Holmes—"

"I _know._"

This simple statement effectively silenced Watson as his gaze changed from warning to sadness. In the course of four years, Watson had lost his wife and all three of his children after suffering the loss of a friend he called brother. Regardless of the circumstances, there was still some part of his friend that suffered guilt and abandonment. He had come far in recovering this last year, but there was a point where he needed more than himself and their investigations to keep going.

Holmes sat silently, waiting to see if his friend would at last discuss the fears that continued to plague his heart. Watson's gaze had turned inward once more as he stared at his hands. Finally he returned to himself somewhat as he nodded to himself.

"I'll accept that you are right," he said calmly, as if having read Holmes' thoughts for himself. "It's not rational. But what would you have me do?"

"So far as changing your mind, nothing. It is part of what makes you who you are, and_ that_ I would not see changed. For the rest, give yourself a chance to heal. Much has happened, and you are not yet ready to face all of it. Until you are, you cannot move forward. There are other battles to be fought, if that is what you need. But there is still more to life than you give yourself by taking that path."

Watson's dark humor rose to the surface again as he cocked an amused eyebrow at Holmes. "Pot or kettle?"

Holmes did not seem amused. "I am what I chose to be, Watson. I made my decisions, and I stand by them. But you are not me. I would not expect you to live by my standards, and I would not see you deny yourself the happiness you deserve."

Not for the first time Watson wondered what events had taken place in Holmes' mysterious childhood that had so shaped the man he called friend. Nodding slowly, he accepted this. He knew Holmes was right. He might find diversion for a time in his self-imposed stance against the criminals of London or the rest of the world. It was that which had helped him cope after the death of his son, obviously. Their own "deaths" had been kept quiet. The return to London would be with little fanfare. He could quite easily fall back into his former life with Holmes and disregard all the other things he thought he would have had with Mary.

"And if I choose not to return?"

Holmes smiled warmly. "It is your choice. I belong in London. And, I had hoped you would consider maintaining our partnership. With some modifications, of course. As I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would welcome you back under her roof, once more. But I will warn you, she is not pleased with us."

Watson lips twitched in the approximation of a grin before he shook his head. Moving to the table for another cup of tea, he considered his next arguments. It wasn't as if he hadn't considered this, he had just sincerely hoped that Emily would have a family. But, as Holmes was the one to bring up the subject, it almost seemed out of place for him not to state the obvious.

"I will not allow Emily to be a target," he finally said, resuming his seat on the sofa.

"And she won't be," Holmes stated almost flippantly. "Our rooms on Baker Street are no place to raise a child, even with Mrs. Hudson's supervision."

"You have a plan."

Holmes smiled widely. "I am given to understand our most recent neighbors had discovered for themselves that living beside a pair of noisy bachelors can be rather unpleasant. When said bachelors have uninvited guests in their absence that attempt to burn down the building, they decided a move to the quiet countryside was in order. Mrs. Hudson assures me there will be no difficulty in building a door in the foyer—or elsewhere—during the renovations."

Watson stared for a moment. He had considered that if keeping Emily meant staying in Edinburgh he would do so. The idea that Holmes had planned this far ahead more than surprised him. The simplicity of it was all the more appealing. Though he had no doubts that once he resumed practice he could afford a place of his own, he was reluctant to resume any sort of work with Holmes so long as Emily would be a part of his life. In this way, he could live with Emily while giving all appearances of residing in his own room at 221B. The only leftover complications would be a matter of public eye. He would have to limit his activities outside the house with Emily for fear of being seen together by the wrong people. But Mycroft had already made arrangements for their safety for some time to come; at least as far as the one threat.

Holmes allowed Watson time to absorb and process all of this on his own. For the first time, he saw something akin to hope spark behind those green eyes as he calmly sipped his coffee and perused the papers on the table beside him. But there was something else there, too, that his friend struggled with and refused to speak of openly. Not wanting to push, as the stubborn man could be infuriatingly contrary when he felt the need, Holmes quietly handed over the deed to the house beside their own. He had parted with the money happily, and knew he would never have cause to regret it. All that was left now was Watson's signature.

Watson stared at the papers in his hand. In the silence, his mind swirled furiously. They would need a trustworthy governess. He would need to set up—

The sound of nearly silent shuffling near the hallway brought his mind to a screeching halt. In all of this, he had not once thought to ask Emily. He and Holmes had obviously considered several options as to what they was best for her. But what would she want? With a father's ears he had detected what Holmes' keener senses had not.

"Come out here, Emily," he called softly, making Holmes eyebrows rise nearly into his hairline.

Holmes frowned as if questioning his own senses at having missed the girl's presence entirely. Emily slowly shuffled into the room and around the sofa to face Watson, her guilty face turned down toward her toes.

"You know it's not polite to listen to others' conversations?" Watson asked.

Her head still bowed, Emily nodded slowly. Only then did he catch the glint of the tears rolling down her little cheeks. "It's about me. You're sending—me away—soon," her struggle to maintain control resulting in hiccoughs. "I just—wanted—wanted to know—when. I wanted—"

Watson closed his eyes, his face a mask of pain. Holmes' heart lurched. Though he had no idea where Emily had learned these things, he did not doubt the girl's intelligence. She had proven herself more than capable of drawing conclusions on her own. He knew they had not openly discussed it with her, and Watson had refused to discuss it with him. He watched as Watson gathered her up, putting an end to her words. He held her in his lap and rocked her gently for a moment.

"I'm not sending you away, Emily," he finally said. "I only want what's best for you. I want you to be happy. Your mother and father wanted you to be happy, too."

She gripped his shirt as she sobbed silently into his shoulder. Watson looked at his friend helplessly for a moment. Finally he seemed to come to a decision. He gently extracted her from his shirt and sat her back a little on his knees. Emily struggled valiantly to reign in her tears as she looked up at Watson.

"Emily, I need you to listen to me now. There are a lot of things to consider, but I need to hear from you, too," Watson started. "You said you don't know of any aunts or uncles. You have no grandparents. We have not been able to find your family, and we might never."

"I don't want to be alone," she sniffled, terrified.

"You won't be, I promise. But maybe we can find you another family with brothers and sisters—"

Her fresh bout of tears complete with more silent sobs confused him for a moment as she covered her face and pulled her knees up to her chest. She seemed not to care about her precarious position on his knees as she curled in on herself in misery. Emily's whole body shook with the force of those silent, choking sobs. She was pulling away from him even as he was trying to pull her to him. Holmes watched this display silently, his own distant memories haunting him momentarily.

"Miss Emily," Holmes started rather coolly, "I believe Dr. Watson was speaking to you."

Watson's eyebrows shot up at his tone. Emily almost immediately began to stifle her sobs, though. Seeing such forced control tugged at his heart, as he knew all too well where and why she had had to learn it. But, it had the desired effect. She finally raised her head, though she did not uncurl herself in his arms. Eventually those tear filled blue eyes turned to his once more, listening to him instead of the thoughts that tormented her young mind.

"I will not abandon you, Emily. If you would like me to stay and find you a family, I will. I won't leave you in an orphanage, either. I don't want to take you away from your home here. Do you understand?"

She sniffled softly as she nodded. "What if they don't want me, either?"

Understanding flooded his features as he pulled her close to him. "I never said I don't want you, Emily. I just want what's best for you. And...I'm not sure if what Mr. Holmes is proposing really is the best for you."

"I can go with you?" she asked softly in a voice laced with hopelessness, not daring to raise her head from where she once again had it buried in his shirt.

"We live in London, remember? For you that would be far away from here. And we would not exactly live together. We would be close, but things would have to be very different. To keep you safe, I can't tell anyone you're my daughter."

For a moment she stiffened in his arms. Her shoulders shook again as she nodded vigorously. "Please, Daddy. I want to be with you and Mr. Holmes."

Holmes saw it in Watson's face, then. Whatever other arguments the man may have had were obliterated with that statement. For several seconds Watson held her close resting his cheek on her head. He rocked Emily gently until the tears slowed and then stopped altogether. Holmes waited patiently for them to recover. Then, a sudden mischievous sparkle in Watson's eyes made him tense with wariness. He watched as Watson whispered in her ear. She beamed a smile through her puffy face before hopping off his knees. Before Holmes had a chance to comprehend what mischief they were up to, Emily had transferred to his lap. She latched her little arms around his chest and squeezed happily.

"Daddy says I can call you Uncle Holmes!"

He threw a gray-eyed glare at his friend as he patted Emily on the shoulder, trying to extract her. "Yes, well, I suppose that is the way of things."

She finally released him to resume her previous position in Watson's arms. They sat back quietly enjoying the peace of the afternoon and the warmth of the fire. Emily quickly dozed off, and Watson did not have the heart to move her as he was lulled into a sense of peace he could not remember ever having known before.

"I will see to the rest of the arrangements after the holiday. Merry Christmas, Watson."

"Merry Christmas, Uncle Holmes," Watson teased warmly. "Thank you, dear friend."

Holmes only smiled. Seeing Watson and his daughter snoozing happily was all the gift he needed.


	27. Epilogue

_**A/N:** I so did not want this to end. But I did promise I would finish before the end of the month. I just wish I didn't feel so terribly bereft afterward. Guess I'm just going to have to come up with more insane ideas to fill the space. Though this one was rather epic, and could use some fleshing out and cleaning up... Yeah, may take a while. Thank you for hanging in there with me._

_~HUGS~ for all of you who reviewed. The feedback has meant a lot to me and has helped greatly in restoring some of my faith in my writing. I cannot thank you all enough for that._

_A special shout out to those repeat offenders! **Riandra, shell less snail, Peaceful Defender, Jenevi,** and **medcat. **Your feedback was more encouraging than you can imagine. Thank you so very, very much._

* * *

**Epilogue**

The lives that had come to an almost complete halt with devastating results some five years ago resumed once more in the spring of 1896 as Watson and Holmes introduced Emily to her new home in London. Though Mycroft never made comment on his being left out of the family they had formed, he always made a point to acknowledge how much his little brother had changed in those years. Watson's influence may have had much to do with it, but it was Emily who saw to it that he kept his head out of the larger schemes to which his brother was better suited. Watson's decision to adopt Emily brought a singular joy to their household as Mrs. Hudson quickly assumed the role of grandmother.

Lestrade had recovered over the winter and was more than happy to keep his visits professional as he could see for himself the doctor no longer needed him in that capacity. Knowing his friends would get along just fine, he began to turn his thoughts to a quieter position or retirement as his own children began discussing his future grandchildren.

The Londoners who passed beneath the windows of the sitting room of 221B Baker Street could not begin to imagine the life that had returned to those humble rooms as they later read of the continued adventures of the two heroes they knew as Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
